


neglected son of genius

by mothwrites



Series: more spider than boy [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: AU, Human Experimentation, Kid Peter Parker, Multi, Multi-Era, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothwrites/pseuds/mothwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker and his father went missing when Gwen Stacy was two years old. She never expected to to be the one who found him, more spider than boy, in her laboratory 16 years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Emily Dickinson's poem on spiders, "Cobwebs". 
> 
> This au was born when I started wondering what Peter's more spider-y features could manifest as if the venom were stronger or better developed, and it went from there. Warnings for experimentation on a child, (though not graphically described,) kidnapping, and wrist injuries (blood and split skin.)  
> This isn't actually a terribly dark fic, it's more of an excuse for me to write about the Parkers and Curt with some dubiously-written science thrown in and a healthy dose of my favourite thing, Peter/Gwen. For more on Curt/Richard/Mary as a poly ship, check out my fic "the handshake, the cough, the kiss," which explores the pairing in much more detail (though not in this fic's universe.)

**neglected son of genius**

**prologue**

 

_Richard Parker, 1995_

_(Before)_

 

“You’re taking him to work with you?” Mary asked as Richard tied the laces on Peter’s tiny shoes. “Won’t Norman mind?”

“Norman loves Peter,” Richard responded absentmindedly. “He won’t mind a bit. And besides, where else is he going to go with the pre-school closed?”

“I work at a _desk_ ,” Mary reminded him. “No-one will mind if I have him on my lap.”

“And what happens if you have to jump up to chase a story? Sweetheart, it’s _fine._ I don’t mind having him with me. Curt, tell her,” Richard added as Curt came down the stairs, yawning. Richard was as much a morning person as Curt was not and he smiled fondly at their sleepy, dishevelled partner. Mary ruffled his yellow hair and passed him a cup of coffee. He kissed her on the cheek in return and started looking through the morning paper, ignoring Richard’s order.

“ _Curt,_ ” he repeated.

“Hmm?”

“Tell Mary it’s fine to take Peter to work with us.”

“With _you,_ ” he corrected. “I’m going to look at that new research centre out of the city, remember? I won’t be back until late.”

“So it’ll just be you and Peter there?” Mary made as if she almost wanted to snatch Peter up and away from him. Richard got there first, and held his son close to his chest. He forced himself to smile.

“You don’t think I can look after _my_ child for one working day?” At the side of the room, Curt stiffened. Richard ignored him. “Please, Mary, you’re being paranoid. He’ll be safe as houses, and all the interns love him. Don’t they, sweetheart?” He directed this last bit at Peter, who gurgled happily and pulled on his shirt collar. Richard smiled at him, genuinely this time. “We’ll be fine.”

“Okay, okay,” Mary sighed. “Sorry. Mothers panic.”

“I understand. Now, come on, we’ll miss the train.” He deposited Peter into his pram, kissed Curt while Mary was fussing over the baby and then kissed her too as he took the pram in hand. “See you tonight,” he promised, before grabbing his briefcase and leaving for the day. He left Mary standing by the door. He would not have been pleased to see the worried expression she and Curt shared.

 

_Richard Parker, 2012_

 

Richard rubbed his eyes and yawned as he finally closed down his laptop for the night. He leaned back in his office chair and as he looked up, smiled to see a small dark shape was occupying one of the large spiderwebs around the house. Peter usually slept on the ceiling in his bedroom, or in Richard’s bedroom, but he knew Peter’s favourite spot was the study. The web on the ceiling had been spun and respun there a thousand times and although he knew Peter’s talents were sound, Richard still kept cushions in a pile on the floor underneath just incase. It was a bad night, he could tell. Peter usually slept on his back, starfished out. Tonight he had curled up into a ball in the centre of the web, and was jittery in his sleep, causing him to roll back and forth slightly. Richard took a moment to watch him, and then stood up and brought out the stepladder.

It was a rickety old thing with years of memories in it. Fond ones, and not so fond ones. When Peter was much smaller, he’d spin webs that covered the whole ceiling so Richard could gingerly climb in and sleep next to him when it was cold, or dark, or they were in a new place and it took some getting used to. Now Peter always slept alone, spinning webs that could fit only him, and he hadn’t slept in Richard’s study in a long time. This apartment had come furnished, with beds, and Peter had taken recently to actually sleeping in his in what Richard suspected was a show of rebellion. The teenage years had been difficult. Richard supposed that Mary and Curt would probably have done a better job, but they would have been raising a human.He climbed the stepladder and reached his hand through a gap in the web to shake Peter gently awake.

“Peter,” he spoke softly, not wanting to startle him. “Peter, wake up. It’s okay.”

Peter woke with a gasp. “Dad?”

“It’s me,” Richard said. “I didn’t hear you come in. Everything okay?”

Peter sat up, his hair brushing the ceiling. His face said it all.

“Bad dream?”

He nodded. Richard stepped down a rung.

“Come down,” he said. “I’m not sleepy either. I’ll make us some tea.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Peter afforded him a (rare, nowadays) smile and climbed down, using the strands of web like monkey bars until he was low enough to jump to the floor. Richard was about to ask why, and then thought he remembered Peter once sleepily remarking that it hurt more when he was tired. For the thousandth time, he made a mental note to make Peter some sort of guard for his wrists. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw Peter getting out mugs and teabags by walking to the cupboards and opening the doors by hand instead of making things fly through the air like usual. He looked pale. Richard took the kettle from him and did the rest as he sat down.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said once they were settled. Peter immediately looked pained.

“What kind of surprise?”

  
“A good surprise, don’t look so worried. We’re going to New York.”

If anything, Peter looked more suspicious. “ _Why?_ ”

“What, don’t you want to see the big apple?”

“Is this going to be like the time you decided we should have a picnic in the park and then made me get stung by a bee?”

“It was a good opportunity to explore the effects of-”

“It _hurt._ ” It hadn’t just hurt. It had left Peter in a terrifying paralytic state for several hours as Richard frantically tried to administer some kind of antidote, (while writing down notes on the effects of wasp venom for his files.) Now Peter was scowling at him, clearly remembering it too. Richard took a sip of tea.

“I’m sorry it hurt, but we learned a lot and that’s important.”

“And what are you hoping to learn in New York?” Peter spat out. Richard felt himself beginning to lose his temper and took a deep breath.

“Nothing. Okay? I just need to pick up some things. You can stay here on your own if you want to, I’ll leave enough food.”

Peter immediately shrank back and stared into his mug. “No,” he said quietly. “I’ll go with you. I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Richard drained his mug and stood up. “I’m going to bed. Do you want me to leave the study unlocked?”

“No, I think I’ll just go to bed.” Peter wasn’t looking at him, but his tone was aggressive. “Like _humans_ do.”

“You’re not human, Peter,” Richard reminded him. “Not _all_ human.”

“Are you going to stop me from sleeping in a bed?”

Richard sighed. “No, not for now. Go to sleep. We need to pack in the morning.” Peter stalked past him without another word and slammed the door.

New York was the most dangerous place for them to go while Peter was in this rebellious mood, but it couldn’t be helped. He needed Oscorp, and he prayed that the last fourteen years had seen them forgotten.

 

_Norman Osborn, 1995_

_(Before)_

 

“Richard, you really shouldn’t bring him in here.”

Richard straightened up in surprise, shielding Peter with his body as he did so. “Norman.” The other man stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed. Richard cursed silently. “I just needed to check something. I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

Norman didn’t look convinced. It was getting harder and harder to lie to him; he wasn’t the same spineless follower he’d had in college. He was a CEO and a father now. Richard had had struggled with him for the last few years.

“And you couldn’t have left him with someone?” Norman persevered.

“What do you think I’m going to do, let him swallow some chemicals?” Peter chose that moment to babble, recognising his “uncle” over Richard’s shoulder. Norman smiled at him, and then zeroed in on the smear of blood on Peter’s arm.

“What’s he done to his arm?”

“Norman, stop sticking your nose in things that don’t concern you.” It was the wrong thing to say. Norman swept past him and saw the bottles, the spiders, the syringe. His face coloured, and his eyes filled with fear.

“What have you _done?”_

“ _Go away,_ ” Richard hissed back. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Jesus, Richard-” Norman ran a hand through his hair, casting wild glances about to see if anyone was watching. “Are you fu- are you kidding me, right now? On your own _son?”_

Richard, still holding Peter close, pressed a defiant kiss to Peter’s forehead. “No-one’s going to believe you.”

“I hardly think-”  
  
“And even if they _do,_ ” Richard continued, leaning in close and aggressively, “these experiments were covered up by _you. You’re_ the one this will fall on.” Peter sat in the space between them, sleepy from the shock of the needle and unaware of the final crack in the riftthat had been forming between his father and his father’s best friend. Norman swallowed, and took a step back.

“So I’ll tell Mary. And Curt.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“ _They deserve to know._ ”

Richard straightened up, and put Peter back down on the worksurface. He complained a little from the loss of contact, grabbing onto his father’s coat with his tiny fists. Richard ignored him.

  
“Don’t threaten me, Norman. We both know you’re not strong enough to see it through.”

“If someone did that to Harry,” Norman continued. He sounded a little shaky. “I’d tear them limb from limb. What do you think _Mary_ would do if she knew what you were doing to _Peter?”_

Richard didn’t answer. Norman would never understand the plans he had in store.

“Take Peter home,” Norman said. “You’ve got until the working day ends to destroy this research. I should never have let you-” he cut himself off and buried his face in his hands. “ _God,_ ” Richard heard, and stayed still. Norman left, calling back “ _tonight,_ Richard,” as he did so.

Richard picked up his son, and let him entwine his pudgy little arms around his neck. He stood there on the spot, breathing deeply, trying to control the rage. Peter was there, and Peter needed to be looked after. Peter was going to be _amazing._

_Peter Parker, 2012_

 

Peter regretted choosing the stupid bed as soon as he’d got into it but didn’t have the energy to muster up a web. Recreating the one in the study had blistered his wrists and made the bones ache. It would be some time before he could support his own weight on his webs without pain, a habit his father disapproved of anyway. Not because it hurt him physically, but because it was a way that Peter could escape, if he ever wanted to. The thought made guilt churn in his stomach. He hadn’t thought about it... much. Only since the fight he’d had with his father the other week.

He’d found a photograph in his father’s study of a young, pretty woman sat at a typewriter. A one-armed man was leaning over her to study what she’d written and they were both absorbed in thought. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the scene and made it beautiful. Peter didn’t know what he liked about it exactly, but he’d sat staring at it for what must have been an hour by the time his father came in and caught him. He hadn’t seen him that angry in a long time and the intensity of it all made harsh words come crashing out of his mouth; culminating in the worst argument they’d ever had. It had ended in Peter holding back tears while his father yelled things like, “ _do you want them to catch you?”_ He’d reminded him what would be in store if the bad guys ever caught up with them; imprisonment, experimentation, _dissection._

Afterwards Richard had tactfully left the flat to get milk, or whatever it was, while Peter cried in his room.

It wasn’t his father’s fault. The two of them were always stuck together in tiny apartments: their tempers came to a boil sometimes, but he knew his dad loved him. Who else would have kept a mutant child? Who else would have kept him safe all these years? They had to keep themselves hidden and secured so men in suits wouldn’t take him away and cut him up. They couldn’t make friends or go anywhere too public in case word got back to his mother, and then _she’d_ come to get him and the same thing would happen. His dad had explained that very carefully.

He’d wondered, for a moment, if the woman in the picture might be his mother. But she looked nice. Friendly. Not the monster he and his father had run away from.

Peter lay quietly, and heard nothing from the other room; no clicking of keys or rustling of pages. He got up and tiptoed to the other door. His father appeared to be asleep. His deep, regular breathing was comforting and Peter immediately relaxed as he climbed up the wall and tumbled into an old web there. It would just about hold him for one more night, he reckoned, and he’d deal with the embarrassment of re-spinning it in the morning. For now, he lay down, listened to his father’s breathing, and finally fell asleep.

_Norman Osborn, 1995_

_(After)_

 

Norman went to visit the Parkers- what was left of them- the day after his conversation with Richard. Mary answered the door. She didn’t look thin or pale, or anything like the descriptions of grieving mothers and wives that newspapers publish under these circumstances. She looked ready to fight. Norman swallowed. He was scared of Richard, true, but Mary was another force entirely. And then there was Curt, who he and everyone else thought of as a Parker anyway, standing behind Mary like a bodyguard.

“It’s about Richard,” he said, needlessly.

She moved: not to let him in, but into a defensive stance. “Where did he go?”

“You know he’s not-” he looked around to see if anyone was listening, feeling like a fool as he did so. “You know he’s not _missing_ , then?”

“He ran,” Mary answered brusquely. “If he’d just gone missing he wouldn’t have taken Peter with him to work that day. Do you know where they went?”

“No,” Norman had to admit. “But I’ve got other things to tell you. Please.” He could tell she was reluctant, they’d never gotten along. “It’s about Peter.”

She stepped aside for him to come in. Curt watched him like a hawk, a silent guard at Mary’s side. The weight of what he’d been carrying was heavy on his shoulders and as Norman walked into the Parker household he hoped he could finally start to atone.

_Richard Parker, 2012_

 

Peter, as usual, took his time exploring every inch of the new flat. Unlike most boys his age, he was less preoccupied with bedrooms and gardens than he was with finding comfortable corners and suitably sheer surfaces. The kitchen was modern; all glass and chrome and Richard had to stifle a laugh as Peter brushed past the fridge in his t-shirt and spent a minute trying to extract himself in his excitement. Richard felt one of those sudden rushes of affection that had always excited and unnerved him ever since he’d become a brand-new parent and had held Peter in his arms; tiny, and pink, and fragile. He held out his hand towards his son almost unconsciously, and Peter, after a moment’s hesitation, dove in and buried his face in Richard’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled as Richard pet his hair in quiet relief. Peter had been moody and sullen all through the drive to New York after the argument they’d had over breakfast. It had started with a comment on the Avengers, and then an argument had started on whether or not Captain America was a mutant, and if so, Peter had argued, didn’t people love him for it? _“You’re not Captain America,”_ Richard had said, but Peter wouldn’t let it go, and Richard had ended up yelling that it didn’t _matter_ if Captain America was a mutant, because he was a hero, and if Peter entertained these delusions of grandeur he was only going to get hurt-

Peter had stared at him for a few moments, and then said, in a cutting voice Richard hadn’t even known he’d _possessed:_ “and you’d hate for anyone to damage your precious research.”

But that was the morning. The long car journey had softened the tensions between them, and Peter had come back to him, as he always did. Richard ran his hands through his messy hair and murmured, soothingly, “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. You know I just want the best for you, Peter.” Peter broke away with faint tear tracks on his face, and nodded.

“I know.”

  
“Maybe unpacking can wait,” Richard decided. “Do you want to go out? There’s a park not far from here, if I remember correctly.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “Can I bring my skateboard?”

Richard weighed up the potential ramifications of this with the sulk Peter would get into if he said no. It _had_ been a long time.

“Okay,” he decided, “but no showing off. Understand me?” Peter was already rummaging through boxes for his helmet. “Peter! Understand me?”

Peter nodded, preoccupied with searching. “Yep. I’ll be careful.”

_Curt Connors, 2012_

 

“Be careful,” Curt said seriously as his son beamed over at the play equipment. “I’ll be right over here if you need me, okay? On this bench, right here.”

  
“Yes, _dad,_ ” Billy replied, elongating the “da-” until Curt laughed and ruffled his hair.

“Go on then. Have fun.” Billy shot off as soon as Curt’s hand left his head and Curt watched him fondly before sitting down. He took out his e-reader from his bag but found it hard to concentrate as his eyes flickered up from the screen every ten seconds to check that Billy was still in his line of sight. It had been 13 years since Richard and Peter’s disappearance and he still couldn’t trust the outside world with his family. Mary was less cautious- her hate for Richard far eclipsed her fear of strangers.

Curt had been lost in thought, but the short cry of his youngest son sliced through the fog immediately. He shot up, searching for Billy’s blonde head among the mass of children. He ran over him, leaving the bag behind on the bench, and reached his son just in time to see a taller figure bend over him. Curt was about to reach for Billy and pull him close when the older boy moved and Curt could see he couldn’t be older than 15, 16 at the most. Billy smiled at him, a small, reassuring expression. The boy retreated, and looked at Curt with wild eyes. For a moment, they were all silent. Then the boy took two steps backwards, and ran.

“Billy,” Curt exhaled, dropping to his knees. “Are you okay? What happened?” Billy reached out a hand to be pulled up.

“Fell from the monkey bars,” Billy mumbled. “My knee-”

Curt immediately went to look at the wound, but there was no blood. A strange white substance covered it. “What’s this?”

“I dunno. _He_ did it,” Billy said, and went to point at the boy, who had disappeared. “Said it would help.”

“Must be one of those spray-on plaster things,” Curt said slowly, still staring at it. Something about the substance made him uneasy. “I have proper plasters in my bag. Does it hurt?”

“ _Band-aids_ ,” Billy corrected him, starting to grin. “It’s okay.”

Curt pulled him close and kissed the top of his fluffy head, ignoring the anguished cry of “da-ad!” that came from his son. _His_ son. They were fine.

_Peter Parker, 2012_

_(5 minutes earlier)_

Peter had been waiting to do his _really good_ trick until his dad was watching, but Richard had buried his head in his tablet as soon as Peter had left him on the bench. He’d been just about to give up and try it anyway when he’d heard a short cry from a young boy on the other side of the playground. On a bench, even further away, a man stood up quickly, but Peter was quicker. Richard wasn’t looking. He got to the boy in seconds, relishing the chance to stretch his legs properly for the first time in a while. The boy was bleeding.

“Hey,” Peter said softly, mindful of how uneasy he could make people with the way he stared and moved his head. “Need some help?”

The boy was entranced, or in shock. “My- my knee-”

“It’s okay. I’ve got it.” Peter closed in around him and quickly broke open the healing cut on his wrist with a nail. With a quick flick of the joint, a light spray of web shot onto the wound and covered it neatly. He had to hand it to him, the boy didn’t even flinch. Just stared at him with big, blue eyes.

Peter let go immediately when the father reached him. He was about to mutter an excuse and run, when he looked at the man properly and noticed his bright, blonde hair, and the empty shirt sleeve hanging down on his left side.

Peter ran. Richard still hadn’t looked up, and he figured he had a minute at least before the father- the man from the photograph- got back to his seat. There was a briefcase there, and a bulge in the front pocket that looked like a wallet. Peter thanked his lucky stars no-one else was around, grabbed it, and sped off to sit with his father.

Richard finally acquiesced to look up from his tablet. “Ready to go, or just taking a break?”

Peter tried to control his breathing, and set down the skateboard he’d been carrying under one arm over his lap, concealing the new weight in his hoodie’s front pocket. “Ready to go. I’m tired. Like, really tired.”

Richard ruffled his hair and then stood up, stowing his tablet away in his jacket pocket as he did so. “Moving always tires you out. Come on, then. We can get food to take home on the way.”

Peter cast a furtive glance over to the play area, where the father and son were just starting to walk back to the bench. Part of him almost wanted them to meet again; his father and the man from the photograph, but he kept going, walking faster, with the weight of new knowledge hanging heavy in his pocket.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She felt like she was in a fog. All she could do was repeat: “Peter?”
> 
> His face changed immediately; panic, shot through with terror. Then she knew. Before she could reach out a hand to touch him, he’d cleared the room, opened the window, and disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! I had to deal with a bunch of real-world issues, so updates aren't going to be as often as I'd like, but I've definitely got plans for this fic.

Peter climbed down from his web only when he was sure that his father was sound asleep. Every time they moved somewhere new he would always sleep in his father’s room until he was comfortable with being alone again. Choosing not to would only have made him suspicious, but it had been torture for Peter; watching and waiting, hiding his stolen bounty until Richard couldn’t see. Peter moved slowly as he unfurled himself in mid-air and touched down onto the carpet as lightly as possible. He’d stashed the wallet in one of the small boxes of his belongings, in the room opposite his father’s. It took him thirty seconds to open and shut the door, move across the hallway, and retrieve it.

He wrote down his findings. Richard had always taught him to be scientific.

_1 x wallet: leather, old-looking._

_2 x credit/debit cards: identify man as “DR C CONNORS”_

_1 x organ donor card with same initial and surname_

_Assorted membership cards for libraries and universities_

_1 book of stamps, 2 stamps remaining_

_1 coffee shop loyalty card_

_$12 in notes/coins_

_Various receipts and sweet paper detritus_

_2 passport-sized photos_

_1 identification pass for Oscorp Industries_

Peter placed them all neatly on the floor by category, and then took out the two items that interested him the most: the photographs, and the Oscorp pass. He’d heard the name ‘Oscorp’ before, in a few brief mutters when his father thought he wasn’t listening. The pass read “Dr Curt Connors,” and identified him as some kind of geneticist, like his father. The photographs told him more. One looked relatively new, and he recognised the man- Dr Connors, with his son, the boy from the playground. The boy was grinning at the camera and reaching out while Connors laughed. His eyes were crinkly. The other photograph was significantly older, and a little creased. It showed a woman holding a toddler up in the air, and both of them were laughing. The toddler was in a romper suit, and had a messy tuft of brown hair. The woman was the woman from the photograph Peter had found a year ago. He was sure of it. She was just as pretty as he remembered.

Peter had to wait another week before he could get out of the house unsupervised again. It was rare in itself to be let out alone; in the first few weeks of living in a new place it was unheard of. Richard seemed especially antsy about being in New York, and had every so often snapped at him for wanting to go out and see the sights. Instead they'd been inside, running tests. Richard liked to update Peter's information every year, but they'd already done the standard tests a month ago. By the end of the week Peter was exhausted and pale. Richard had taken more blood than usual and although he was used to the process, it still left him weak and grumpy, and more importantly, unable to spin webs as he was under strict instructions not to lose any more blood than had already been taken from him. His misery at being shut up and poked and prodded clearly showed on his face because for once, Richard relented, and promised him an afternoon where he could go for a walk with his camera. The camera had been a gift, too; Richard had picked it up while he was out in the city without him. He didn't know where he went.

Richard left him with strict instructions to be back at the house by a certain time, absolutely no exceptions, checked he had his burner phone on him, and then finally, finally, let him alone. His dad went one way, to some secret location, Peter, another. He knew better than to talk to strangers, it had been drummed into him from an early age that in public he had to be invisible. Peter flipped up the hood of his jumper and made his way to tourist information. The city map told him he was twenty minutes away from the Oscorp building. Peter checked the wallet in his bag was still there, and set off.

\---

 

Gwen Stacy lived for the quiet Sunday afternoons at Oscorp. Walking into the building; so bright, so clean, so empty, blew away the bad mood in her head like a strong summer breeze. She could think at Oscorp. She loved the feeling of responsibility she had- authority, almost. Curt had told her that she could use his office to study in at the weekends when he wasn't around and she'd taken full advantage of it with midterms coming up. Peace and quiet, that's what she needed.

She was interrupted by a hand on her arm, pulling her to the side of the corridor. "Please," a boy whispered. "Just wait until they've gone past."

Before Gwen had time to respond, two of the security guards she knew fairly well came upon them, and the boy visibly shrunk.

“Miss Stacy,” one of them said, looking surprised. “Is this boy with you?”

“I _told_ you,” the boy answered, angry, “I got lost going to see Dr Connors.”

Interns didn’t have a specific mentor, but Gwen worked with Curt. Everybody knew that.

“You got lost?” She said to the boy, heart racing.

He nodded at her, eyes wide and entreating. Gwen made a decision.

“I wondered where you’d gotten to,” she said playfully, poking him in the side. “It’s okay, guys. We’re interviewing new interns today.” She didn’t think she sounded convincing, but the guards relaxed and one even smiled at her. She saw him every day when she came into work.

“I can leave him with you, then?” He said as the other guard glowered. Gwen nodded and kept a firm grip on the boy’s arm until they made their goodbyes and left. As they turned the corridor, she marched him to the office in furious silence until they were safe inside with the doors closed. He hadn’t said a word since arguing with the security guards, and he didn’t say anything now they were alone.

“Right,” she said firmly, making him jump. “You’re going to tell me why you snuck into this building, on a _Sunday,_ to see someone who doesn’t know you’re coming and doesn’t work weekends.”

The boy paused. “It’s a Sunday?”

Gwen was thrown. “Yes, it’s Sunday.”

“Huh.” The boy leaned back against the worktop carefully, almost wincing. “I thought it was- doesn’t matter. Um-“ he started to rummage in the satchel he was wearing. “I have this.”

Gwen reached out a hand, and he gave her a wallet. She stared at it for a moment, before remembering a day a while ago, when she’d had to let Curt in at the main gate because he’d lost his ID- which he kept in his wallet.

“You found Curt’s wallet?”

He nodded. “He left it in the park. So he’s- he’s not here?”

“He doesn’t work weekends. But I’m sure if you came back on Monday, he’d like to thank-“

“No,” he cut her off, waving his hands limply. “Not here for thanks. I just wanted to ask him some questions.”

“Questions?” Gwen repeated. He didn’t look like a science fan-boy type, the kind you saw around Stark tower. He looked- if anything, he looked _ill._ He was almost translucently pale, he blinked rapidly, and every so often she caught him massaging the skin of his arms and wrists and wincing. As she looked him up and down, he started to droop, eyelids heavy. “Hey!” She made it over to him just in time to catch him and prop him back up against the counter. “Are you ill?”

He seemed to find the question hilarious. He let out short, breathy barks of laughter as he stood upright again and didn’t meet her eyes.

“It’s sort of a chronic condition,” he finally said. “I have a… let’s call it a virus, which just won’t _leave me alone._ And I wanted to talk to Dr Connors about it. But if he’s not here-”

“Wait,” Gwen said. “Just- wait. Sit down, I’ll get you some water.” She manoeuvred him to the seats by the desk and though he didn’t actively try to get away, she could see his eyes dart to the exit every ten seconds. It almost reminded her of how Curt looked when they both got dragged to departmental meetings. Once he was safely sat down, she grabbed her bottle of water from her bag and passed it to him. He took a grateful gulp. His hands were shaking.

“Stacy?” He asked.

Gwen was thrown for a moment, and then remembered the guard calling her “Miss Stacy”. “It’s Gwen,” she corrected him gently. “Stacy is my last name.”

“Gwen,” he amended. “Could you do me a favour, and not tell anyone I was here?”

“Why?”

“I, uh- I skipped school. Don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“ _It’s Sunday._ ”

“Oh.” He laughed, and Gwen was struck by how _pretty_ he was, despite his illness. He had those deep chocolate eyes she liked, and a surprisingly warm smile. “We cleared that up earlier, didn’t we?”

“We did,” she nodded. “You’re a very strange boy, did you know that?”

Another laugh. “So I’ve been told.”

“If I keep you a secret,” Gwen asked, “do I at least get to know your name?” He went to speak, and then stopped. “Oh, _come on._ Why can’t you tell me your name?”

“No reason that would make sense,” he admitted, looking increasingly agitated by the minute. She saw his eyes dart to the window again.

“So?”

“Peter,” he finally said. “I really have to go. Thank you, Miss Stacy- Gwen, for the water. I appreciate it.” He stood up, and she could tell she was staring by the concerned expression on his face. “Are you okay?”

She felt like she was in a fog. All she could do was repeat: “Peter?”

His face changed immediately; panic, shot through with terror. Then she knew. Before she could reach out a hand to touch him, he’d cleared the room, opened the window, and disappeared.

\---

“Out of a _window?_ ”

Gwen nodded around a mouthful of cheesecake. After a few hours of pacing and a hurried Sunday dinner with her family, she’d made her excuses and run to Harry’s house to, as he put it, “have a _completely_ irrational freak-out.”

“Out of a window,” she confirmed. “And when I ran out to look for him, he was gone. Not falling. Not dead. Just… _gone._ ”

“I suppose he could be one of those parkour weirdos,” Harry gestured ineffectually at the buildings behind them. “But a sheer surface like the Oscorp tower… anyway. Just because his name was Peter doesn’t mean-“

“It _might._ ”

“I thought this might happen,” Harry mused, swirling his coffee round in his mug. “In lots of missing person cases, people do turn up and claim to be people’s long lost sons, or whoever.”

“No.” Gwen shook her head. “He asked me not to tell anyone. He just wanted to speak to Curt about,” she paused, trying to remember his face. “He didn’t exactly _say_ he was ill, I think he was joking- but he looked ill. There was something weird about him.”

“Are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “A strange boy breaks into Oscorp, returns a wallet that’s been missing for two weeks and then vanishes out of a window? Do you think they’d believe me?”

Harry shrugged. “I do. I just don’t believe it’s _Peter._ ”

The name hung between them, heavy and unignorable, like it had done since they’d first met. She knew they were both imagining him right now; what he’d look like sitting with them, (if he’d never been stolen from them, if they’d ever met.) Harry had met him, of course, but he was too young to remember anything. His first memories of the Parkers were of their grief. Gwen never had. She’d followed the case from an early age because her father was on it and because it fascinated her to imagine a boy she should have met and never did. Thinking that she might finally have done was giving her the shivers, and she didn’t quite know why.

“Maybe it’s hard to believe he’s a real person because we’ve been imagining him all this time.” Gwen thought out loud. “Maybe we forgot he really is still out there.”

Harry let out an ugly, bitter laugh. “How exactly could I forget that? Dad never shuts up about it.”

“You know he blames him-“

“ _I know._ Trust me, I live with him. I know exactly how much he blames himself. And if you tell him you’ve seen Peter-”

“I’m not telling anyone right now. Except you. Of course.”

“Of course,” he repeated, and took another forkful of cheesecake from their shared plate. “Feeling calmer?”

“Feeling _fuller._ Peter- or whoever was in Curt’s office- could do with one of these. He was skinnier than _you._ ”

“Really?” Harry seemed amused. “He looked _that_ ill?”

“I-“ Gwen’s stopped with her cup of coffee to her lips. “Don’t, Harry. Don’t be morbid. You’re going to get better, you _are._ ”

“Mmm.” Harry didn’t quite meet her eyes as he nodded. “So we must hope.”

\---

Peter knew he hadn’t missed his curfew, but was still nervous about going home. He was sat on the fire escape of their new apartment, just out of sight of Richard, who was pacing back and forth. Peer was exhausted with the strain of running from Oscorp tower, and he had climbed down the sheer glass surface he had slipped and shot out a web to steady himself. Now his wrist was bleeding through his jumper, enough that he couldn’t hide it. At absolute best, he’d get a lecture. At worst… Peter imagined confinement, and more tests. Then, suddenly, his mind jumped back to Gwen Stacy, as if never seeing her again would be part of the punishment. He’d been struck by how easily she touched him. Most strangers panicked over his eyes, or his skin, and avoided him. She took his arm and took care of him, even if it was just for a few minutes, and it was almost as if he could still feel his handprint on his arm.

And she knew his _name._ He’d been stupid to react the way he did. Peter had been cursing himself for it ever since he’d jumped out of the window. All he’d wanted was to meet Dr Connors and get some answers. Instead, he’d jeopardised his whole plan. And God knows how much time he had left. Peter didn’t like thinking about the future, but he knew one day he wouldn’t think the way he did now. He wouldn’t think like a human. His body was running out of time and he wanted answers before he had to succumb to the inevitable.

Speaking of the inevitable, Peter sighed and admitted to himself that he really did have to go back home and face his father. He did his best to hide his right wrist as he climbed through the window. His father was on him in seconds.

“I’m not late!” Peter protested before Richard had a chance to say anything. “I know, I know, I’m late- _er_ than expected, but-“

“What took you so long and _why_ were you climbing?” He didn’t seem angry, not as angry as Peter knew he could get, but his voice was dangerously steady and calm.

“I had to walk home,” Peter said quickly. “I couldn’t remember the subway route.”

“It’s the red one. I _told_ you it was the red one-“ Richard stopped short then, wringing his hands. He wouldn’t look at Peter properly. “Your eyes. I forgot.”

Peter had forgotten too, and it took him a moment to connect the dots in his head. The way his _condition,_ as his father put it, increased over time, meant that new symptoms of his mutation came out as he got older. The first one he could remember experiencing as something _new_ was the oily coating he could create on his feet and hands that would allow him to stick to almost any surface. His father used to joke that raising any small child was difficult, but raising one that was often _literally_ climbing the walls was something else. Peter was thankful that his physical symptoms didn’t alter his appearance too badly; he’d never woken up with three extra sets of eyes or six new legs. Last month, however, he’d woken up on a normal Tuesday morning almost fully colour blind. It upset him, but he hadn’t thought to use it to disarm his father like this.

“I didn’t want to ask which one was red,” Peter mumbled, deliberately making himself seem smaller. “In case it attracted attention.”

“Oh, Peter.” His father sighed into his hands. “No, don’t worry. I should have written it down for you.” He moved aside to let Peter in to the apartment and closed the window. “How did it go? Get any good pictures?”

“I think so,” Peter lied. He’d have to sneak out again and take some random tourist shots to keep his cover. “I guess I’ll see when they develop. Do you mind if I-” he gestured to his bedroom.

“You’re tired,” Richard agreed. “I’m not surprised, walking through half the city like that. Go take a nap.” Peter got up, still hiding his wrist in his hoodie’s pocket, and practically ran to his room.

“When you get up later,” Richard added as his hand was on the doorknob, “I’ve got some new tests to go. The research I found today was very interesting.”

Something in Peter deflated, but he did his best to smile and nod. “Okay, sure.” Once he was safely hidden from view he tumbled into bed and for once, didn’t think about how much better he’d feel up in the air in one of his webs. In an effort not to think about syringes and blood samples, he closed his eyes and fell asleep with the image of Gwen Stacy in his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cheesecake for breakfast?”  
> Harry shrugged. “Life is short.” He speared a chunk of cake and biscuit on his fork, and looked at Peter curiously. “So, tell me. Did you really jump out a window, or is Gwen finally having the stress-induced breakdown I’ve suspected of her for years?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK, Y'ALL. Sorry, autumn term was crazy. Updates should be more frequent from now on! Thank you to everyone who's left a comment - you're my lifeblood.

Peter didn’t allow himself to go back to Oscorp, or to even _think_ about it, for another week. Wracked with guilt, he’d stuck close to his father’s side for days; quiet, amenable, letting him get on with his work and providing him with whatever he needed. In return for the seemingly random burst of good behaviour, Richard had gone out and bought photo chemicals and glossy sheets of printer paper, and Peter was forced to venture outside again the next morning to take the tourist shots he’d been lying about since the week before.

It was the first time he’d left the flat since meeting Gwen Stacy. He tried to content himself with the bright, crisp New York morning; the slight frost on the grass; the early-morning joggers exhaling steam; the shine on the skyscrapers in the pale sunlight; but with every click of his camera he found himself walking closer and closer to the Oscorp tower.

He was perched on a bench nearby when he saw her. Gwen Stacy, bundled up in a winter coat and a soft-looking scarf, nodding her head to music playing through her earphones, texting, stopping to pet a dog- he’d taken ten pictures before he even realised what he was doing. An elderly woman on the bench stared at him with a hard eye.

“She’s a friend of mine,” he said quickly, and she raised her eyebrows in disbelief but eventually looked away. Peter felt a flush rise on his cheek, and it was at that moment he heard someone call out his name.

“Peter!” He looked up to see Gwen waving, already scanning the road to cross over onto his side. He gripped the side of the bench hard enough to gouge out splinters of wood in an effort to stay put while something powerful in him was telling him to run - not the usual itch behind his eyes warning him of danger, but his father’s voice in the back of his head. He was _not_ supposed to be here.

Gwen crossed the road. “It _is_ you,” she declared triumphantly. “How have you been? You look - well, worse, actually.” Her expression changed into something worried, and if Peter knew the word, he’d have called it _motherly._ It brought a lump to his throat, and he wasn’t sure why.

“I’m fine,” he eventually stuttered out. “Fine. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

The old woman next to him looked her up and down. “He was taking pictures of you.”

To his incredible relief, Gwen smiled. “You were taking pictures? Why?”

“I -“ he didn’t know what the appropriate thing to say was. “I like taking pictures of, uh, nice things.” _Smooth, Parker._ She giggled, and as the old woman rolled her eyes and got up to leave, Gwen sat next to him.

“Can I see?”

“I’m not a stalker,” he said, before handing it over, because he _really_ wanted to make that clear. Gwen nodded indulgently and looked down at the camera in her hands.

“Um.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. You meant - I can’t show you the pictures until they’re developed.”

She laughed at him again, and he flinched, but there was no sense of danger around her at all. “Then you’ll have to come see me again, won’t you?”

Peter smiled. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“How about now?” Gwen stood up again, adjusting her scarf and smiling down at him.

“Don’t you - “ his mind raced, wanting so badly to say yes. “Don’t you have work?”

“I’m early,” she answered breezily. “We could go get breakfast. My treat. There’s a place just round the corner -“

“Okay,” he said abruptly, cutting her off before he could say no. For her credit, she only looked startled for a second, before she nodded and reached out to take his hand. He stared at it.

“Need help getting up?”

“Do I look that pathetic?” he joked. He took it anyway. She wore white woollen gloves, rough and warm on his skin.

*

Gwen’s hands were clammy. She prayed that Peter couldn’t feel it through her gloves; she was pretty confident that she’d put on enough of a show that he wouldn’t be able to tell how nervous she was, but he was so unreadable, she couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t let go as they started walking and it reminded her of a small child being led to school. He felt so frail that she hadn’t wanted him to, in case she lost him in the street. So she held on tight, and with her other hand, fired off a quick text message.

“Just letting the office know I might be late,” she reassured him when he looked up with a slight touch of panic in his eyes. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m always worried,” Peter mumbled, not quite low enough for her not to hear.

“It’s not much further,” she promised. She had a café in mind; a cosy, nicely-lit place with armchairs covered in velvet and perfectly brewed coffee. It was where Harry spent most of his mornings in the holidays, and where she joined him, when she had the time. It was where he was sat right now. She spotted him in the window across the street, tapping on his phone, and she watched he got up, moving towards the back of the café, to a more private table. Gwen breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked quietly in her ear. She put her smile back on.

“Fine. Here we are.” They crossed the street, and then the threshold of the café, and then the room to find the table where Harry sat. Peter stood next to her, hiding his face from the baristas and customers. Harry looked them both up and down, his mouth forming a little “o” of surprise before he composed himself and stood up, pulling Gwen’s chair out for her as he always did.

“I took the liberty of ordering for us,” he said smoothly, returning to his seat. “Are you going to introduce me to our guest?”

“Peter,” she nudged him forward, and silently blessed Harry for being so unruffleable. “This is my friend Harry.”

“Harry Osborn,” he said, holding out a hand to shake. With a little hesitance, Peter unlinked his fingers from Gwen’s and shook it.

“Peter,” he replied, and sat down.

“Peter?” Harry repeated, a pleasant but questioning lilt to his voice.

“Just Peter,” Peter said. “I can’t stay long. I shouldn’t even - I shouldn’t really be here.”

“Stay for breakfast, at least.” Harry thanked a waitress as she lay down a tray with cups of coffee and slices of cheesecake. Gwen tried to suppress a smile.

“Cheesecake for breakfast?”

Harry winked at her. “Life is short.” He speared a chunk of cake and biscuit on his fork, and looked at Peter curiously. “So, tell me. Did you really jump out a window, or is Gwen finally having the stress-induced breakdown I’ve suspected of her for years?”

“Harry,” Gwen warned. She could feel the anxiety radiating off Peter in waves.

“I used the fire escape,” Peter finally said. They all knew it was a lie, but Harry didn’t push it.

“Am I that scary?” Gwen joked. Peter smiled at her, but said nothing. After a moments silence, Harry caught her eye meaningfully. She nodded.

“I’m just going to use the ladies,” she announced, and tried not to wince at the look of sheer panic Peter sent her way. “I’ll be two minutes, I promise.” As she left, she let her fingers brush Peter’s neck, and gave his shoulder a squeeze in what she hoped was a comforting fashion.

She texted Harry from the bathroom. _Don’t scare him._

“She’s protective of you,” Harry muttered, putting his phone away and giving Peter his full attention. “No coffee?” he asked, gesturing to Peter’s full cup.

“Sorry,” Peter answered automatically, but made no move to touch it.

“No, it’s fine.”

“I’m not allowed caffeine,” Peter explained.

Harry shrugged again. “Neither am I, but like I said, life is short. You told Gwen you were sick, didn’t you? A chronic condition.”

“I did,” Peter said.

“Is it killing you?” No preamble. Harry didn’t have time for that anymore. When Peter didn’t answer, he said “Mine’s killing me. Slowly, but surely. You thought Dr Connors could help you, why?”

“Why should I tell you?” Peter looked him in the eyes for the first time. “What are you dying of?”

“That’s what Curt’s trying to find out.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, “but this isn’t the same thing. I’m looking for information, not a cure.”

“On what?”

“On _who_.”

“I see.” Harry took a long drink of his now-cooling coffee and looked at Peter again; his pale skin, his jittery fingers and determined eyes, and decided, with some relief, that he liked him. “Peter, may I ask you a personal question?”

“I have the feeling you’re going to anyway,” Peter said.

“You’re right, and I have the feeling you’re going to leave soon, so I’ll just _ask-_ Peter, are you who we think you are?”

“Who do you think I am?” Peter asked, betraying nothing.

“I think you’re Peter Parker,” Harry continued, bringing up his pictures on his phone. “And I think this is your father,“ he slid the phone across the table, “Richard Parker. And I think you’re scared of him, and you want _help_ -“ Harry was cut off by Peter standing up and dropping the phone on the table in front of him.

“I am _not_ scared of my father.” It was the loudest he’d spoken yet. A few people turned to look at them, and Peter immediately sat back down, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up. Harry was aware he was staring, but couldn’t stop himself.

“It _is_ you,” he breathed. “Oh, Peter.” Gwen saw him turn away from the doorway of the bathroom and ran forward, taking his hand again.

“Please don’t leave. Harry, what did you _do?_ ”

“Cut straight to the point,” Harry replied, business-like again. “He _is_ our Peter. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“Yours?” Peter looked from Harry to Gwen. “You don’t even know me.”

Gwen worried her bottom lip. “Actually, we kind of do… Please hear us out. We just want to help.”

“I have to leave. Dad will notice if I’m gone for too long.” Peter took Gwen’s arm, and led her slightly out of the way. “Please,” he murmured. Their faces were almost touching. “Promise you won’t tell anyone else about me.”

Gwen exchanged a look with Harry. “If you promise you’ll come back,” she said, “then I won’t tell anyone. We’re your friends, Peter. We always have been.” She slipped a folded-up piece of paper in his pocket as she gently hugged him goodbye.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said. He nodded at Harry. “Thank you- for the food.”

“Anytime,” Harry said. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Peter took one last look at the both of them, and then darted out the shop. Gwen waited until he was out of eyesight before collapsing in the seat next to Harry, letting out a small groan.

“What did you put in his pocket? A tracker?”

“What?” Gwen frowned. “No, my phone number. Where would I get a tracker? Who does that?”

Harry shrugged. “It would have been useful. Oh well. We go to Curt and Mary now, right?”

“What?” Gwen said again. “ _No._ We’ve got to gain his trust.”

“Gwen, they need to know that their son is alive!”

“Ssh!” Gwen flapped her hands at him, in a gesture that reminded him of when they were little, and they hid from their parents to avoid going home at the end of play dates. He could never stop giggling under the pressure of being quiet. “First we need him to trust us, or what evidence will we have? Oh hi, Curt and Mary, sorry for dropping in unannounced, but we thought we’d dredge up the painful memories you have of your son being kidnapped by telling you _we met him in a coffee shop earlier!_ ” Her whispered tirade ended on a shrill note, and he grimaced at her.

“All right, I get it. Are you okay? You seem stressed.”

“ _Do I?_ ” Gwen whisper-shouted back. Harry had to laugh.

Gwen sighed, and settled back down to her breakfast. “You’re very chipper for someone who has a physical today.”

“Well, meeting childhood ghost friends will do that to you.” Harry drained his coffee. “Finish your cheesecake, Stacy, I’ll walk you to work.”

*

Richard, typically a late riser, was making breakfast when Peter got back to the flat. He didn’t seem angry; he waved a hello with his mouth full of cereal, and gestured to the note Peter had left on the kitchen table in acknowledgement of his early trip out. Richard didn’t mind Peter leaving the flat in the early morning, so long as there were set time limits and he kept his phone on at all times.

“Morning,” Peter said, and wormed his way into a one-armed hug. The guilt he’d been carrying for the past week returned in full force as he looked at his dad’s face.

“Everything okay, chum?” He was in a good mood today. “Take some pictures?”

Peter dipped his head. “A few. I was gonna develop them later, if we’re doing lessons today.”

“We are,” Richard promised. “Sorry, I know I’ve been slacking. I went out and got some new textbooks the other day, we can make a start on them later. Did you finish _On the Road?_ ”

Peter nodded.

“And?”

He made a face. “Boring.”

Richard laughed. “Ah, sometimes you’re just like your mother.”

There was a long pause. Peter’s mind raced with all the mentions of his mother he’d ever heard before; _we had to escape, Peter, she knew what you were, she couldn’t handle it, she wanted to give you up to the authorities -_ and then, once, years ago, _you have her eyes._ Peter hadn’t been able to look in the mirror for a week after that one. He still couldn’t, without thinking about it.

“I mean,” Richard sighed. “I meant - before.”

“Before I was born, you mean.”

“Her loss, Peter. You know that.”

“So why’d you say it?” Richard sighed again, but this time there was heat behind it, and Peter flinched. Life was always more difficult when his dad was frustrated. “Sorry.”

“Slip of the tongue. Go put your stuff away and we’ll do some work.”

“Dad -”

“Peter, _now._ I’m not in the mood to argue.” He didn’t look particularly threatening, brandishing a cereal spoon, but Peter knew better than to debate the topic. He left Richard to it and dumped his bag and camera in his room.

After shucking off his hoodie, he stopped and stared at the small piece of paper which fluttered down to the floor from his front pocket. It stuck to his fingers when he bent down, and he opened it carefully, mindful of it tearing. On the paper were the words, “Gwen Stacy, mobile,” and then a phone number. Peter’s heart raced. He looked wildly at the door, as if his father might be standing there, and then around his room for a hiding place. He ended up in the corner of the ceiling, and stuck it up with some blue tack salvaged from the corner of a poster. When he jumped back down and stood by the door, he could barely make it out at all.

*

Harry accepted the mug of tea from Dr Connors and curled himself around it on a nest of cushions, inhaling the steam. After years of tests and physicals in Curt’s office, he’d finally put in a sofa and Harry had never been more grateful for a purchase.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Feeling rough?”

“Not really. Just – “he couldn’t tell him. Not today. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Headaches again?”

“No, just one of those nights.” He sent Curt a pleading look, and Curt nodded, knowing when to leave well enough alone. He ruffled Harry’s hair in his familiar, uncle-like way and got to work on the counter that divided Curt’s lab from his office. Harry found himself looking at the photos in the frames stood there; Mary, smiling into the camera; a school photo of Billy’s; a selfie of Harry and Gwen taken last summer, that they’d stuck up themselves and he’d never removed. In the middle of the row of pictures there was a small silver frame, round in shape, and within it was a picture of a baby that wasn’t Billy, nestled in the arms of someone just out of shot. Harry shivered, and then felt the gentle, (too gentle) force of a hand on his shoulder. He whipped his head around to see his father smiling down at him.

“Dad!” Harry slammed his mug down on the glass table, winced at the noise, and then got up to carefully hug his father. Pulling back, he appraised him; pale and shaky, with green veins like tendrils curling up from his neck around his ears and cheeks. “Dad, you should be resting.”

Norman leaned on the back of the sofa, breathing too heavily for Harry’s liking. “Have I – “he broke off to cough. “Have I ever missed taking you home?”

“No,” Harry admitted, “but I’m seventeen, I can walk home by myself. You should be in bed.”

“I’ll survive. How did it go?” Norman asked, directing the question at Curt, who could only look sympathetic. They’d had this conversation too many times.

“I’ll let you know,” Curt promised, as he usually did. Harry grabbed his coat and bag, and took his father’s arm.

“Come on. Thanks, Curt,” he called out, and tried not to look at the photos again as he guided Norman out of the room. “Crazy old man,” he murmured, and smiled to hear his dad laugh.

“So apart from the physical, did you have a good day? Adequate day?” Norman asked as they got into the car. Harry belted himself up, and thought about Peter. His pale skin and his dark eyes, and his small, soft, smiles. The way he looked at Gwen and how he was incredibly, impossibly, _alive._ He thought of his father and how he’d carried that guilt and lack of resolution for so long, and just for a moment, he hated his best friend.

“Good enough,” Harry replied. “Not busy. I had breakfast with Gwen.”

"Nothing else?" Norman asked. He had on a familiar, worried expression, like he thought Harry wasn't social enough for a boy of his age. (He did think that, and expressed it to Harry, frequently.)

Harry sighed. "Nothing at all."

                                                                      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Peter gets some answers, (and some action,) Harry ignores the inevitable, and Curt finds something very worrying under his microscope.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the pretty heavy workload I've got on right now, this is a shorter update than usual - I thought it would be better to give you the first part of this chapter now, and publish the second half soon, rather than wait and publish the whole thing weeks from now. If that makes sense. Thank you so much to everyone who has left a comment so far! If you've got questions about this 'verse or anything you want to say, I'd love to hear from you.  
> Part one of this chapter is Peter and Richard, part two will be the same timespan with Gwen and Harry, (and Mary and Curt.) Enjoy part one!

It was around 8 in the morning when Peter climbed into his father’s bed. Richard woke to find his son pale and shaking, his hands balled into fists over his eyes.

“ _Peter._ ” He snapped straight to attention. With a scientist’s care and precision he gently guided Peter into a sitting position and prised his hands away from his face, all the while murmuring in a low, comforting voice. Peter cowered when the light hit his opened eyes and had to screw them shut again, but after a moment he started to respond more coherently to Richard’s questions. Five minutes later he was still, and breathing normally.

“Try opening your eyes again,” Richard instructed, and exhaled a sigh of relief when Peter did so. “Good. Good boy.”

“It’s so _loud,_ ” Peter whined, ducking his head onto Richard’s shoulder. Richard stroked his back in soothing motions, like he had done when Peter was still just a toddler and the world was even noisier than it was for him now. “Dad, make it stop.”

For the thousandth time that week, Richard cursed the construction site that had sprung up opposite their apartment building after ice damage had caused a leak in the road outside. The noise wasn’t so bad, but the vibrations from the cars and equipment had been steadily getting to Peter over several days, upsetting his delicate senses. He realised there must have been something new this morning to get him so worked up, but wasn’t about to quiz him over it. Peter hadn’t been this tactile with him in weeks, maybe months. He’d missed his son.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he murmured into the hug. “I wish I could. Maybe we should get out of here for a while – maybe a city this big is just too much for you right now. I’m a bad man, I should have thought about this sooner.”

“ _No_ ” – Peter drew back, and Richard was taken aback by the look of panic in his eyes. “No, you’re not. I _like_ it here, just – not right now. I’ll be _fine._ ”

“Peter…” Richard watched helplessly as Peter, exhausted again, sunk back into him. “You _can_ tell me if you’d rather go back. I know I can be difficult –“

“ _No_ ,” Peter mumbled into his shoulder, as forcefully as he could manage. “You’re not a bad man.”

“All right, Petey,” he said, letting the pet name slip in his worry. “Do you think you could get some sleep in here? I’ll see about breakfast.” Reluctant as he was to leave the warmth of his bed and the affection of his recently-distant teenage son, he was worried about how much paler he was than normal. Peter nodded, and disentangled himself to burrow into the covers, hiding his face in Richard’s pillow. Richard allowed himself a few moments to stroke his son’s hair, and then left for the kitchen. The case of medication he’d had Peter on for the last few months sat on the kitchen table open, waiting.

He closed the lid. Not today.

Peter shuffled into the kitchen an hour later, looking marginally better for the extra sleep but still pale and haunted, and he grimaced at the sunshine glinting off the road equipment from the open window.

“I called the city council,” Richard remarked as Peter helped himself to oatmeal and banana slices, with a liberal helping of syrup. “They said the work should be done by the weekend.” Peter made a non-committal noise in answer and made grabby hands for Richard’s coffee cup. “No, no caffeine for you.”

“ _Da-ad._ ”

“You know the rules. Will you be all right if I head out today?” Another grunt. “Good kid. I’ll bring back something that will make you feel better, hopefully.”

“Earmuffs?”

“Cute. No.”

“Whatever. I’ll be fine. I promise not to pass out over photo chemicals or something before you can stick needles in me.” Peter looked up briefly from his breakfast to stare pointedly at the medication box, only to be surprised when it wasn’t there. “Uh?”

“I thought you’d appreciate a break. You look like you’d blow away in a strong wind right now.”

Peter’s nose wrinkled. “Won’t I get sick?”

Richard felt the years of lies rise up in the back of his throat, stinging his eyes, and squashed the feeling down as best he could. “No, no. A few days won’t hurt. It might even help, toning down all the distractions your body is getting.”

Peter shrugged, and went back to his oatmeal. “You’re the boss.” Seemingly embarrassed for his actions earlier that morning, he didn’t look up from the table, and when Richard ruffled his hair on the way out he squirmed away. Richard left, briefcase in hand, and when he looked back from the door Peter had gone back into his room.

 

*

 

Peter had never used his phone to text anyone other than his father before. It felt wrong, and despite knowing that Richard was far away from the flat he still hid himself in the blankets of his bed, the door closed. He typed and re-typed his first message before finally sending a simple;

\- Hello? (This is Peter.)

A message came back almost instantly.

\- Peter! J I’m glad you texted. Everything okay?

\- I’m okay. Can I call? It’s easier for me than texting.

It wasn’t quite a lie; his wrists _were_ always sore, but he really just wanted to hear her voice. His screen lit up a few moments later.

_Incoming call: Gwen Stacy_

“Hey you,” she said when she answered, sounding warm and friendly and _real._ Peter instantly relaxed.

“Hey. You’re not busy?”

“No, I’m at home. Sick day- just a stupid cold,” she added, when Peter made a small noise of concern. “My mom’s a worrier.” There was a beat, and then she continued, “Moms are like that, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Peter said quietly. “My dad worries, I guess. Or he seemed worried today. He doesn’t usually.”

“Are you feeling worse today? What’s wrong?” There was a hint of panic in her voice that he wasn’t expecting.

“N-no, no. Well, yes. But it’s a different thing. There’s construction work going on outside our flat and the noise- uh, it gives me like, migraines? Essentially.”

“Ah. That sucks, I’m sorry. Harry gets headaches for that sort of thing too.” She paused, and then said, “I’m sorry about him, by the way. He can be a bit - intense.”

Despite himself, Peter chuckled. “You’re telling me. Gwen, what’s wrong with him? He told me he was dying.”

He heard Gwen’s breath catch, just slightly. “He’s melodramatic.”

“So he’s not dying?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Is he like me?”

“I don’t know what you’re like, Peter,” Gwen said softly.

“You two seem to know more about me than I do. How come?”

Gwen sighed, and from the rustling sounds on the phone, it sounded as if she was moving into a more comfortable position. Peter mirrored her, leaning back against the headboard. “Peter, it’s a long story.”

“I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“I’m not sure you should hear it over the phone.”

“Why do you know who I am? And who my father is? Why do you and Harry care if I’m okay or not?”

Gwen sighed again. “Because you’re our _friend._ Look – when you were kidnapped, it was the year before you should have gone to school, right? If you’d stayed here, the three of us would have been in class together. That’s when Harry and I met. And because _we’re_ friends, and your parents and Harry’s dad are friends, we _should_ have grown up together. But we didn’t. So Harry and I, we grew up without you, but you were always kind of there, like,” he could hear her struggling for the right words, “like our imaginary friend, sort of. Like we’ve always been waiting for you to arrive, and, I don’t know, complete things. Does that make sense?”

“ _No_.” He’d only taken in about 50% of it anyway, after her first sentence – “What do you mean, kidnapped?”

“Your father-“

“Didn’t _kidnap_ me, he’s my _dad._ You can’t get kidnapped by your _dad._ ”

“You can. You _were._ It was a big police case, Peter, you can _Google_ it.”

“I’m not allowed on the internet.”

“Gee, I wonder why. I’m sorry, you wanted the truth – legally you’ve been missing for years. Your mom and Curt -”

“ _You know my mother?”_ It came out louder than he’d intended, and Gwen squeaked in surprise. He clapped a hand over his mouth and shot a glance toward the door, like his father would burst in after hearing his mother mentioned from across town.

“Peter,” Gwen was saying in the background, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle –“

“I have to go,” he blurted out, feeling sick, and dropped the phone in his attempt to end the call. He wanted to throw it out the window. His mother _._ Was she working with his _mom?_

*

Peter had been asleep when his dad got home; still exhausted from tossing and turning the night before as residual aftershocks from the emergency construction work hit his senses. As such, he hadn’t heard his father call out hello, or poke his head through the door to check on him. It was only the creak of the kitchen door that woke him up and alerted him to Richard’s presence, at exactly the same time that the itch in the back of his head flared up, warning him of danger.

 _You’re wrong,_ he thought furiously at it, and at Gwen too, for painting his father as some kind of –

Peter stopped dead. _Gwen._

“ _Peter_ ,” his dad called out. Within seconds Peter was through the kitchen door. The photo he’d taken of Gwen, the day of their breakfast at the coffee shop, was hung on the line he’d webbed up for the newly-developed pictures to dry on. It hung in the very middle; within it, Gwen was smiling, startled, and her hand was raised in the beginning motions of a greeting. Her frozen face looked straight at him.

It wasn’t the picture his father was looking at. In his hands was a simple skyline shot that Peter could barely remember taking. He let out a small sigh of relief and sidled round to his dad, blocking the view of Gwen as best he could. Richard took him gently by the arm. His father. His _home._

“This is really good, kid,” Richard said as Peter bumped his shoulder in an affectionate greeting. “Really, you’ve developed quite an eye for photography.”

Peter squirmed happily. “Did you wake me up just to embarrass me?”

“No,” Richard replied, still holding onto him. “I woke you up because it’s 6pm, lazybones. And so you could tell me how you took this shot,” he continued, sounding suddenly unamused. _Ah,_ Peter thought. That explained it. In a moment the affectionate atmosphere had gone, and Peter could feel himself turning sullen. “Peter?”

He ducked his head, staring at his hands. “It was just a street light, don’t freak out.”

“ _Peter –“_

“I’m _sorry –“_

Richard gripped his arm a little tighter, turning his son to face him. “Peter, look at me.”

Peter did so, his jaw set mutinously. “It was _early._ No one saw me.”

“ _That’s not the point._ You could have been seen, you could have _fallen._ You know you’re not allowed to-“

“Have any fun?” Peter supplied dully. “I don’t fall off things, dad, I literally stick to things.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, kid.”

“Or what?” Peter asked, surprising them both by shaking Richard loose. “You’ll ground me? That’ll make a _real_ dent in my social life.”

Richard’s glare, something that used to stop him in his tracks, had no effect this time. It bolstered him, just a little. Just enough.

“Not this again,” his father said. “You _know_ why you have to stay inside.”

“In case someone recognises me?”

“Because you’re _sick –_ what’s that supposed to mean? Who would recognise you?”

The itch in Peter’s head was getting stronger and stronger, but he shook it off. Something was changing – something was shifting between them. It felt cold, and final. Part of Peter wanted to cry and be hugged, even told off, gently, but the stronger part of him wanted answers, and had done for a long time.

“Why did we run away from mom?” he asked abruptly. Richard started.

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Was I always sick?”

“Peter, stop it. You know all this.”

 “Dad, just tell me the truth, _please –“_ Peter was almost yelling now, but his father had stopped trying to interrupt and was instead staring at something to the left of his son. His eyes were wide, and almost, (though Peter could hardly believe it,) fearful. Peter turned, and remembered the photo of Gwen, but that wasn’t what had grabbed Richard’s attention. What he was staring at were the tall, metal letters adorning the doors just behind her.

_Oscorp._

“Who have you been talking to?” Richard’s voice was quiet and controlled now, not angry, and his eyes were locked on the photograph. “Tell me. _Now._ ”

Peter’s bravado started to fail, but he kept his head up. “Just a girl I met.”

“The girl in the photograph? Gwen Stacy?”

Peter blinked, caught short. “You – you know who she is?”

“Yes,” Richard said, finally looking at him. “Go and pack.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You heard me. We need to get you away from these people, _tonight._ ”

“ _Why?”_ Peter moved quickly to the door, blocking his father’s exit. “Is she telling the truth?”

“ _No,_ Peter, all Oscorp wants to do is experiment on you, they’re _scientists.”_

“You’re a scientist,” Peter argued back.

“I’m your _father._ Peter –“ Richard sighed, and took hold of Peter’s shoulders, looking him right in the eyes. “I’m your _dad,_ Peter. I know you’re confused right now, I’m sure she’s told you all kinds of stories, but all they want to do is take you away from me. Your _family._ Can you trust me on this? Please?”

With an unpleasant jolt, Peter realised as he looked into his father’s eyes that he’d never seen him look so frightened before. Not after the bee attack that had rendered him paralysed, not during any of Peter’s constant illnesses and health scares, not in the middle of any argument. Never as frightened as this.

It made up his mind. Peter nodded, and when he started to move forward, Richard pulled him into a round hug. Peter clung on tight to his dad for just a moment before letting go.

“I’ll go pack,” he mumbled. He heard his father say ‘good boy’ at him as he shuffled out quickly, back to his room. With the door closed he retrieved his phone from where it had fallen under the bed. Missed calls and texts from Gwen lit up the screen when he flipped it open. He opened the string of texts, not reading them, and quickly typed out a message.

\- It’s me. I have to leave the house. Like NOW. I need somewhere to go.

\- Meet me outside Oscorp? Are you hurt?

\- Not hurt. Will you be alone? Don’t tell my mom. Or anyone. PLEASE.

\- Okay, I promise. You can trust me.

\- I really hope so. 20 minutes.

Peter's phone lit up again with one more message, just before he shoved it into his jeans pocket. Whatever it was, he thought, she could tell him in person later. Peter clipped on his backpack, hastily stuffed with ‘essentials’; his camera, some clothes, a stuffed toy he’d had for as long as he could remember, and scanned the room for anything else he might need. As he did, he heard – or rather, sensed – his father approach. He knew he had only a moment. After one last look at the door, he ran to the other side of the room and the opened window.

Peter took a deep breath as he climbed onto the ledge. Within a second, he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It looks like a spider web,” Billy concluded, still absorbed in looking down at the sample. 
> 
> Curt suppressed a shiver. Neither he nor Mary had any good memories of spiders.

 “Darling, what have I told you about microscopes in the kitchen?”

“It’s clean,” Curt protested, smiling as his son grinned at him from behind his wife. Mary, amused, stood with her hands on her hips. The pale early evening sun shone down on them both from the window that overlooked the garden. _Beautiful,_ he thought. “Five minutes?”

“ _Two_ ,” she warned, making Billy laugh again. With a gesture from his dad he bounded over and jumped onto the stool beside him, peering intently at the makeshift workspace.

“What is it, dad?”

“I’m not sure,” Curt replied absent-mindedly. After a few more moments of silent study, he leaned back and pushed the instrument towards his son. “You have a look for me.”

They’d piqued Mary’s curiosity by this point, and she peered over with an arm full of vegetables. Billy moved out of the way briefly for his mother, then focused back on the microscope again. “So what is it?” Mary asked, leaning her chin on Curt’s head. He shrugged.

“A kind of synthetic bonding material, such as – I don’t know, like a ‘liquid plaster.’”

Billy perked up at that. “Like my one from the park?”

“Hmm,” Curt hummed noncommittally. He didn’t know himself quite why he was so drawn to the substance he’d gently scraped off Billy’s arm that day. It reminded him of something he’d seen before, but was buried somewhere in the back of his mind, and had been infuriating him ever since. Really, he thought, it was a distraction, especially today. Last night he’d dreamed about Peter. Not Peter the sweet, smiling baby they’d lost, but Peter as he might look today; like Richard had in college but smaller, softer. Curt didn’t usually let himself think about it.

“It looks like a spider web,” Billy concluded, still absorbed in looking down at the sample.

Curt suppressed a shiver. Neither he nor Mary had any good memories of spiders. He stood up to wash his hand before going to help Mary with the dinner. She nudged his shoulder with hers briefly as they stood together, peeling and chopping, watching their young son peer through the lens of the microscope and babble about anything and everything that came to mind. Mary was just about to ask him to pack away when the doorbell rang.

“I’ve got it,” she said, moving out of the kitchen and down the hall. She opened the door, expecting to see a salesman or a neighbour, and instead saw Harry Osborn stamping the snow off his boots on their doorstep.

"Mary! Hi." He was fidgeting with the cuffs of his peacoat, a familiar habit for when he was distracted or nervous. "I'm just dropping off a book Dad thought Billy might like." He nodded to the book under his arm. "I'm not disturbing you?"

"Not at all," Mary promised. "Come in out of the cold."

"Only if you're su-"

"I'm sure." She called out as she moved back into the kitchen, "Darling, we've got Harry for dinner."

Curt poked his head around the door at Harry, hanging up his coat on the same hook he used every time. "Have we? How nice."

"Apparently," Harry joked, trying to sound simultaneously amused and not like he was at all relieved. Curt knew it well. He gave Harry a friendly smile, trying to reassure the boy that he was, in fact, always welcome in their house: it wasn't just an empty sentiment and never had been. Besides, Harry was surprisingly good with kids, and Billy loved him.

Mary watched Billy curl up on the sofa next to Harry, excited to tell him all the news from school and home. Harry did his best to nod and smile and ask the right questions in the right places, but Mary couldn’t help noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the way his hands shook as he turned the pages of the book he’d brought.

“Poor lamb,” she murmured, catching Curt’s attention. “He looks worse than usual.”

“Gwen’s looked rough too,” Curt said back in an equally soft tone. “The start of term, you think?”

“I suppose,” Mary replied, unconvinced. “Did she say anything? They might have fallen out.”

“I think they’re both just stressed – Harry about his dad, more than anything. Maybe they’ve both realised we’re running out of time –“

“Oh, _don’t_ ,” Mary said suddenly, her voice betraying more emotion than she’d intended. “Don’t talk like that, I can’t bear it. Poor kid.” Curt squeezed her shoulder, murmuring soothingly, _I know, I’m sorry._ Mary shook herself out of it and clapped her hands. “Kids!” She called out brightly, “Could you clear the table?”

Harry chivvied Billy away from the sofa, stretching as he got up. When he reached the counter, he stopped to look at the microscope, fixing Curt with an amused expression. “I thought the rule was no lab equipment in the kitchen?”

“Hush,” Curt murmured, embarrassed. Harry briefly passed his eye over the lens while tidying up.

“Doesn’t it look like a spider web?” Billy pressed. Harry looked closer, and then froze. “Har?”

Harry pulled away weakly, his hands shaking again. “It – it does,” he agreed, with downcast eyes. “Uh.” He looked up, and Curt was surprised to see that his eyes were full of tears. He was reminded, very suddenly, of the talk he’d been meaning to have with Norman about Harry; how he’d suddenly started reading all the files on Richard’s work with spiders, his experiments, and his son.

“Harry?” They’d all stopped now, to look at him, and he was looking around wildly at all of them as if he were in a room full of strangers.

“I’m sorry – I –“There was a catch in his voice. “God, I’m so sorry. I need to tell you…”

Curt ushered Billy away to the living room as Harry stuttered and fought his way back from the beginnings of a panic attack. Mary knelt down to take his hands, the permanent etch of worry on her face getting deeper by the second.

“Harry, sweetheart, just breathe. It’s okay. I promise it’s okay.”

Harry gulped, his eyes shimmering wetly. “Mary… I don’t know what to do.”

*

_> Just had a Peter-related panic attack at the Parker’s. Try saying THAT five times fast._

>> ?!?!?!  
>> WHY WERE YOU THERE

_> THEY’RE MY FAMILY._   
_> Gwen_   
_ > Tell me we’re not doing a terrible thing?_   
_ > Keeping this from them?_

>> So you didn’t tell them?

_> No, I think I handled it with my usual amount of dignity and aplomb.  
> There was a lot of crying. Mercifully it got put down to dad’s latest health report, the start of term… that kind of thing. I’m “overtired”._

>> You ARE overtired.

_> Yeah, but I’m also harbouring A MISSING CHILD. Sort of._

>> I’ve got news too. Peter didn’t know anything about his dad kidnapping him. And he’s clearly terrified of Mary. I’m worried I scared him off.

_> Fuck. I still have to survive through dinner - meet you after. At mine?_

>> I’ll try and sneak out. Look after yourself. <3

_(Harry: seen 6:32 p.m.)_

>> oh my god  
>> HARRY  
>> come back online damn it  
>> i have to go meet peter and i have to go alone

_> What? What happened?_

(Gwen: seen 7:01 p.m.)

_> GWEN_

*

Gwen was putting the finishing touches on a heartfelt apology to her mother for running out of the house with no explanation when she heard the sound of something falling lightly to the ground behind her. She stowed her phone in her coat pocket and turned around to see the something – scratch that, _someone –_ look up at her with big, scared eyes. Peter. Huddled in an oversized hoodie, he looked more like a lost child than ever. She, too, felt very young. Irresponsible. She had no idea where on earth to go from here.

She was staring. She realised that as Peter waved a hand self-consciously in front of her face.

“Sorry!” she gasped, shaking her head. “You startled me.” A smear of blood caught her eye, standing out against the pale skin of his wrist, though only just visible in the glow of a nearby streetlamp. As soon as he caught the direction of her gaze he pulled his sleeves down.

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, “it doesn’t hurt.”

“What happened?”

He fixed her with a strange look. “You probably know more about it than me. It’s just something I can do, when I need to – shoot webs to get around. It’s why I jumped out of the window that time, so I could swing out of sight.”

“Right…” she said, weakly, confronted with the scientific phenomenon that was Richard Parker’s spider serum in the flesh. “And that doesn’t hurt you?”

“I…” He was a bad liar, Gwen noted. Stammering and shuffling his feet like her little brothers used to when they were caught hiding something. “You get used to it. And it’s quicker than walking. No-one looks up, and it’s dark anyway, so I thought,” he bit his lip, clearly anxious, “I thought I could risk it.”

 _There’s got to be a better way of utilising those webs,_ Gwen thought immediately, and then pushed down the scientist side of her brain to focus on the matter at hand. Getting Peter somewhere safe, and _warm._ If he shivered any more violently they were going to attract unwanted attention. “Take my scarf,” she instructed, winding it off from around her neck.

“No, you need it,” he argued, but she’d already started draping it around his shoulders. It was a cashmere shawl in a soft, coffee-colour that Harry had given her for her last birthday, and Peter stopped resisting and smiled at her when the fabric brushed his cheek. “Hi,” he murmured. “I didn’t say that before.”

“Hi,” she smiled back. They were very close now. The wind bit at her nose and raised pink spots in Peter’s cheeks. Neither of them moved, for just a moment. Then - “Oh,” Gwen said suddenly, looking at the scarf again. “Harry.”

“He’s here?” Peter asked, smile rapidly changing into a frown. “I thought you were coming –“

“Alone, I did. But you need to stay _somewhere_ and I can’t exactly sneak you into my room at home. Harry has a whole apartment to himself, you’ll be totally safe there.” He looked uneasy, his big brown eyes plaintive and worried. “I promise you, okay? I’ll be there too. I won’t leave you alone.”

“Is that a promise you can keep?” Peter asked her, quietly. She nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Let me just send an advance warning.” Gwen fished out her phone, sent the text she’d been crafting earlier to her mother, and opened up the conversation with Harry. He’d been trying to get her attention for the last twenty minutes.

>> Sorry. Are you home? Bringing Peter to you. Will explain everything then.

> _OKAY? I GUESS?_

>> Don’t panic! Everything is okay. I think. I don’t know. See you soon!

> _GWEN_

“When we get to Harry’s,” Peter said as they started walking, “you have to tell me everything. Everything you know about me. And _how_ you know it. Please?”

“Of course,” she promised. She hesitated for a moment, and then in one swift movement, took his hand and squeezed it gently. “We’ll tell you everything we know.”`

He didn’t let go for the entirety of the short walk to Harry’s apartment, and she took a moment to remember that kidnapped child or not; he was still just a boy her age, and she felt a little warmer for it, even in the February night air. He was quiet, save for whenever the phone lodged in his pocket started to ring, which was about every ten minutes. “My dad,” he muttered, making no move to answer it. He’d been looking around every few steps to make sure they weren’t being watched. “Can we get off the streets?”

“We’re nearly there,” she said. “But it’s not like he can get help to look for you, can he? He’d have to turn himself in if he went to the police.”

“He wouldn’t use our _real names,_ ” he almost scoffed, and she was struck by the ease of his response and how he must have lived over the years. Did he go to school? Did they have fake passports, social security numbers, and birth certificates?

“Peter?” Gwen asked. He turned his head to look at her. “What did he do to you?”

“We just had an argument. About,” and then he stopped and looked away. For a few moments they navigated the sidewalk hand-in-hand in silence before he started to speak again. “About mom. And what you told me about her and dad.”

“I see,” she said, unsure of what else to say. “I’m sorry if I scared you, I didn’t know that, uh, that _you_ didn’t know.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know, I think.” He waited patiently as Gwen stopped and looked in her bag for the spare key she had for the Osborn’s estate. Harry had texted that Norman was still at work, having a late night in the office as they pushed through various deadlines. Gwen called out for Harry as they walked through the door, and she immediately heard footfalls as he ran down the stairs to greet them.

“Are you okay?” he demanded, going straight for her instead of Peter. “You sounded so weird on the phone.”

“I’m fine,” Gwen assured him, shrugging off her coat and bag in the kitchen. “Peter needs somewhere to stay. In secret.”

Harry looked pained, but nodded, and started fussing over Peter instead. It was a habit of his, when he was stressed, to focus on whoever was around, turning into the perfect host like his father had always taught him. Peter looked a little overwhelmed, but by the time they were comfortable seated in the living room, with food and hot drinks, he’d shrugged off a little of his shyness. She could see his impatience now, and so could Harry, because he put down his cup and asked, “So, what do you want to know first?”

“My mother,” Peter said immediately. “Tell me about her.”

“You know her better than I do,” Gwen addressed Harry, settling down into the sofa. She kept a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder (he’d chosen to sit on a cushion on the floor, head resting on the space just by her knees.) The urge to tangle her fingers in his hair was incredibly tempting, but she didn’t want to startle him. Still, as Harry started talking, she thought she saw him move incrementally closer with every word. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

“I don’t know where to start,” Harry admitted. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve been told about her, and Curt, and we’ll tell you what’s really going on. To the best of our knowledge.”

“It’s okay,” Gwen murmured to him. “We won’t interrupt you, you can say whatever you want.”

“I don’t know where to start either,” Peter repeated. “I don’t remember her or anyone else. It’s just been me and dad since I was a baby. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but all he told me was that we had to run away from the house – and from Oscorp – because I’m a mutant and she wanted to hand me over to the authorities.” He twitched his fingers as he said the last word, like he doubted who these authorities were, or if they existed. “I don’t even know her name.”

“Mary,” Harry said automatically. “Mary Parker. She didn’t change her last name when she married Curt, in case you ever tried to find her.”

“She’s not still married to dad?” Peter asked, brow wrinkling in confusion.

“He’s been missing for too long,” Gwen explained, “long enough that she was able to file for a divorce, and married Curt. You know they were all, all three of them…” she trailed off, wondering how on earth to explain a polyamorous marriage to someone so sheltered. Mercifully, Peter nodded.

“I know he loved them both,” Peter said, quietly. “In the past. There was this picture… it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t now.”

“They had another child,” Harry added. “Billy. He’s ten. Really sweet. Looks like Curt, with the bright fluffy hair.”

“I met him,” Peter replied. “Um, when I stole Curt’s wallet. Which I gave back,” he added quickly, as if they’d yell at him. “When I met you. So tell me what she’s really like?”

 _Soft hands,_ Harry thought, _and the smell of the lily-of-the-valley hand cream that Curt gets her every Christmas._ Drying his tears, fussing with his clothes, showing him books and animals and things she never got to show Peter.

 _Her reading glasses,_ Gwen thought, _always on top of her head or in her hands, gesturing, making a point, and how she always leaves them in labs and classrooms and offices._ Curt sighing, laughing, asking Gwen if she wouldn’t mind running them down to her. The glasses chain Billy made for her out of macaroni. She wore it at her desk, daring anyone to laugh at her.

The time she’d let them babysit Billy and the three of them watched Disney movies all night and played with the chemistry set Mary had bought Harry when he was eleven years old. Middle school graduation, when they’d all gone on a picnic after the ceremony, and Mary got up suddenly in the middle of it all and didn’t come back for fifteen minutes. She was wiping her eyes when she sat down on the rug again. Her office; the award she and the rest of her team of journalists were given for their missing children campaigns, her framed articles on the wall, her ancient typewriter and state-of-the-art laptop, the box of boiled sweets she kept in the drawer. The baby photos.

Gwen swallowed past the lump in her throat. “She’s just the best person, Peter. She misses you so much.” The words felt inadequate. Harry looked just as helpless.

A sharp burst of music startled them all, and Peter looked around wildly before Harry fished a phone out of his pocket.

“My dad,” he murmured, already getting up to take the call. “One minute.” As he left the room, Peter took out his own phone.

“Mine stopped calling,” he said absent-mindedly, more to himself than her. “I don’t know if that’s good or not.” As she watched, he suddenly crumpled in on himself, forming a tight, impenetrable ball. Gwen realised he was crying, and clumsily slid off the sofa to sit beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“I don’t know what to do,” she heard, muffled through layers of sobs and scarves and sweatshirt sleeves. “He’s my _dad._ I just… _left_ him.”

Gwen couldn’t bring herself to remind him that his father had kidnapped, hurt, and experimented on him. It wasn’t what Peter needed right now. Instead she held him close, waiting until his breathing evened out and he lifted his head up again. His dark, doe eyes were wet and she couldn’t look away from him. _Am I doing this right?_ She wanted to ask. _Am I helping?_ Sitting alone with a lost boy in her friend’s apartment, all of seventeen years old, she felt very young. Too young for the responsibility. Yet somehow, intrinsically, she knew that she was supposed to be here.

As she stared at him, Peter quickly moved forward and let his lips brush her cheek in a clumsy kiss. “Thank you,” he said, drawing back. “I forgot to say. Thank you for helping me.”

“My pleasure,” Gwen said faintly. “Peter, we need to decide-“

 She was cut off. Peter had gone white. “Someone’s here,” he whispered.

Adrenaline shot through her as moments later, they both heard the sound of keys clinking against the metal of the front door. As Peter jumped up, looking wildly about for an exit, Harry ran past them and wrenched it open. His phone was still gripped in his hands, his knuckles white. Curt, thrown momentarily off-balance, stumbled in.

“He’s okay, Norman’s okay,” Curt said in a rush, addressing Harry and not looking around at the other two. “He only fainted, it’s nothing critical. There’s a car waiting to go to the hospital. Grab a coat.”

Fearful and silent, Harry did as he was told. While he searched for a jacket, Curt finally saw Gwen and Peter standing at the edge of the room. Gwen took Peter’s hand before he could run away. Curt, looking only worried for the both of them, opened his mouth to speak, and as he did so, Peter looked straight at him. Silence fell on the four of them.

“I’ve got this,” Gwen said, breaking the spell to address Harry. “Go, we’ll catch you up.” With one last look at Curt, Harry ran out the door, leaving the three of them alone.

Curt took a step forward, and then wavered. With his hand spread out in front of him, unthreatening, like trying to approach a wild animal, he looked from Peter to Gwen, and back to Peter again, mouth still open in a confused ‘o’. For a second, Gwen thought he might laugh. And then Curt spoke.

“Peter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This chapter update's got a lot going on, so hopefully you weren't disappointed! If you've got time, please leave a comment - I'd really like to know everyone's thoughts on where they think this is going or any questions you've got about this world. I love hearing from you guys. I promise more Peter/Gwen action in the next chapter, but there was a lot of Plot Stuff I needed to get through first.
> 
> And, uh, sorry-not-sorry for the cliffhanger.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curt took a moment to think. “I need to go to the hospital, Harry’s going to be alone and Norman will want someone there for him. Do you think you could convince Peter to come with us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is two months late, but in those two months I did successfully finish writing a 10k dissertation on medieval libraries AND study for/take two exams, so I hope you'll forgive me. I'm now a horrifically unemployed postgraduate, so updates should be more frequent now. Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter, and to everyone sticking with this!  
> (In my rush to actually publish this, it hasn't been read over as thoroughly as I'd like, so forgive me if there are mistakes.)

_Curt took a step forward, and then wavered. With his hand spread out in front of him, nonthreatening, like trying to approach a wild animal, he looked from Peter to Gwen, and back to Peter again, mouth still open in a confused ‘o’. For a second, Gwen thought he might laugh. And then Curt spoke._

_“Peter?”_

Peter’s hand shot out and Gwen immediately took it, squeezing gently to comfort him as best she could. This wasn’t a situation she’d planned for.

“Peter? Am I – “Curt looked around wildly. “I am right, aren’t I? And you were at the park?”

“How does he know? Did you tell him?” Peter muttered quickly to Gwen, and she was struck by the panic on his face and the look of complete betrayal on Curt’s. Torn between both of them, she started with Peter.

“I didn’t tell anyone –“

“You look just like him,” Curt answered for her. “Richard. When he was your age.” His hand, still stretched out in front of him, dropped, and he took a step forward instead.

Peter immediately flinched. _“Don’t touch me.”_

The look on Curt’s face brought tears to Gwen’s eyes. “Look, just…” she turned towards Peter. “Stay here. Please, for me. I’m just going to talk to him.” She slowly let go of his hand and walked backwards towards Curt. He nodded at her, though his expression and stance screamed that he was ready to move at a second’s notice. Gwen took Curt’s arm and led him quickly to the kitchen.

He rounded on her as soon as they were out of Peter’s eyesight.

“Gwen, _what_ is going on? That’s my son! Does he even know that?”

“Yes,” she replied, trying to keep her voice calm, “but he’s _scared._ Richard has been doing… well, I don’t really know what. Experiments. We’ve been trying to get him to leave and he _finally_ ran away tonight. Like, an hour ago.”

Curt’s voice was low. “When were you going to tell us this? How long have you known about him?”

“Just a few weeks!”

“A few _weeks?_ ”

“We promised not to tell anyone until he was ready! We had to get him away from Richard first.”

Curt sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose for a few moments. “Where is he? Richard?” The name looked painful on his lips.

“I…” she faltered. “I don’t know. Out looking for him, we think. Peter’s not scared of him exactly, but he doesn’t want to go back. They had an argument about you and Mary.”

“He knows about us?”

“Sort of. Richard told him when he was little that you wanted to give him to,” she put up her fingers in air quotes, “the _authorities,_ because he’s a mutant. He is ill, and terrified. So please don’t startle him.”

Curt nodded. He was starting to regain some composure. “I’ll try not to. God, this explains so much. I just still can’t believe he’s _alive._ My son…”

Gwen felt her voice start to tremble as the weight of the evening settled on her. “Curt, if you want me to quit and get out of your life after this, I’ll – I’ll completely understand. I know I handled this poorly.”

A look of surprise spread over his face and he rested his hand on her shoulder. “Gwen, don’t be ridiculous. I should be thanking you. He clearly trusts you with his safety, and I don’t know how we would have done that. And now we can take care of him, if he’ll let us…” Curt took a moment to think. “I need to go to the hospital, Harry’s going to be alone and Norman will want someone there for him. Do you think you could convince Peter to come with us?”

Gwen considered this. Peter was panicking, she could almost feel it from the other room. Yet at the same time, she knew he trusted her. If Curt wasn’t in the room with her, she could do it.

“Can you wait in the car?” she asked.

Curt clearly didn’t want to move without her, but he acquiesced and moved out of the kitchen, careful not to stare at Peter too much as he did so. When Gwen came back to the living room she found him stood by the window, hands balled into fists and shaking.

“Harry’s father is in hospital,” Gwen explained. “Curt has to go and be with him, and I want to go and be there for Harry. He’s my best friend.”

“You want me to come with you?” Peter asked, looking like there were many other things he’d rather do as Gwen nodded. “I guess I have to, don’t I? I have to meet them.”

“Kinda, yeah,” she admitted. “They’re good people, Peter. I know you’ve been hurt, but if you give them a chance, you won’t regret it. Curt’s waiting in the car for us now.”

Five minutes later, with Harry having already left in the taxi Curt had called on his way over, Gwen and Peter slid into the back seat of Curt’s car. Peter didn’t have the energy to explain to Gwen why he spent the journey curled up and pressed firm to her side, and was banking on the fact that she didn’t mind, due to the way she was stroking his hair. It was the vibrations assaulting every inch of his skin that made him ball up like a fist, and so he concentrated on the sound of Gwen’s heartbeat, and the feel of her fingers scratching lightly at his scalp.

Curt made some concerned noise from the driver’s seat, and Peter didn’t acknowledge it.

“I don’t think he likes cars,” Gwen murmured.

He wanted to tell Gwen that he was all right in most cars; this sensory overload was a result of a combination of factors. The New York noise. Car radio. Bumpy driving. Fear. His brain was constantly scanning the streets for danger, and for his father. Perhaps they were the same thing now.

There was a lot he wanted to tell Gwen.

“Peter?” Gwen spoke a little louder to catch his attention. “We’re here.”

Peter slowly prised himself off Gwen and squinted out the window at the glowing lights of the hospital. His father had always told him that if he ever set foot in one, the doctors would seize him. They would dissect him. He would never see his family again.

Richard had told him a lot of things. He followed Gwen out of the car and shut the door with a decisive slam.

When they had all gotten out of the car, Curt made a move as if he were about to lay his hand on Peter's shoulder, but had then thought better of it. In the seconds that followed, Peter realised that he hadn't moved to avoid the touch. There was no danger coming off the man.

Surprised, but not unpleasantly so, he said "I'm okay," and gave him a nod. "I won't run. You can go see Norman."

Curt stared at him incredulously, as if Peter had given him a precious gift, and not just a small reassurance. After a second's hesitation he did put his hand on Peter's shoulder, and allowed himself that second of contact before withdrawing.

"Thank you," Curt said. His voice was thick.

"Go on," Gwen added. "We'll wait for you downstairs."

Curt nodded, looked at Peter one more time, and hurried off. "Text me news!" Gwen called after him, and then turned back to Peter. "So."

"I like him," Peter said.

"Good," Gwen replied after a moment's pause. "That's... really good." She shook her head to clear it, and fixed a smile on her face that did not quite mask the concern in her eyes. "You can't have caffeine, right? The cafeteria has hot chocolate. Or herbal tea."

"Peppermint?" Peter asked hopefully.

"I'm almost certain of it."

"Then lead the way, Miss Stacy."

Gwen laughed, and held out a hand for him to take. Peter hesitated slightly before he did so.

"I don't want you to get the wrong impression, you know," he said conversationally as they walked.

"About?"

"This." He squeezed her hand for emphasis. "I mean, sure, I can get a little scared, panicked... I don't always understand people's intentions toward me. But I'm not holding your hand because I'm scared. It's also because you're a very pretty girl, and, well." He grinned at her, hoping he didn't look as awkward as he sounded. "I like being close to you."

Gwen didn't respond for a few moments. A spiral of anxiety corkscrewed its way up Peter's stomach. "Gwen? I'm sorry - "

Gwen cut him off by squeezing his hand, tight, just as he was about to let go. "You're really something, Parker."

"Is that good?"

"Just keep walking and look straight ahead. I don't want you to see me blush."

 

*

 

Norman was stable. They had told Harry this four or five times now, but still he would not move from his father's bedside.

"Leave him be," Curt muttered to the attending doctor. "He's not hurting anyone by staying." He leaned against the doorway to the private room. "Harry, can I get you anything?"

Harry looked paler than ever in the dim hospital lights. His jaw was set tight and Curt wondered if he would have to watch him cry for the second time that night. It seemed like years since they'd been at dinner together.

"Gwen and Peter texted to say that they were in the cafeteria," Harry informed him in lieu of a real answer. He wouldn't look at Curt.

"I'll go check on them. Call me if you need me, all right?"

Harry didn't answer. As Curt clicked the door closed he thought he heard a small, quiet sob.

He avoided everyone's gaze as he walked down the corridors and stairs to the cafeteria. The knowledge of Peter's survival was a bright, burning thing in his chest; the guilt of keeping him from Mary, even for an hour, was like having cold water thrown on him at every turn. He couldn't bear keeping a secret from his wife for a minute longer, but the threat of losing Peter to his panic was too real to be ignored. Curt recalled how Gwen had explained that Peter had been brought up in fear of them both. He could only imagine how this boy – his son – was feeling now. Curt stepped through the painfully slow automatic doors that led to the cafeteria and prepared himself for the sight of Peters pale, sickly skin, and Richard's brown eyes. He scanned the room once, twice, three times. Peter and Gwen weren't there.

Panic shot through his heart. "Excuse me!" He grabbed the arm of a passing member of staff. "Were there two teenagers here? A boy, and a girl in a pink coat?"

The attendant's expression, originally surprised and offended, mellowed slightly. "Those two? They went to the front desk to get a band-aid. Left about a minute ago."

"Thank you," he heard himself say before running out. The front desk wasn't far away – it only took a minute – and he breathed out a huge sigh of relief as he sped round the corner and heard Gwen's laugh, and saw Peter's blue sweatshirt. The receptionist was chatting to them as he approached.

"Ah, is this your dad?" The receptionist asked.

Gwen faltered.

"Her teacher," Peter explained. "My... Uh, stepfather."

The receptionist clearly thought they had recently become a new family, as she noted Curt's evident surprise and gave him a knowing smile.  Gwen thanked her for her help.

"I had to say _something,_ " Peter murmured as the two teenagers made their way over to Curt.

"No, that's..." Curt wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "That's fine, Peter. Good call."

"How's Norman?" Gwen asked quickly.

"Stable. Asleep. Harry won't leave."

"I'll go sit with him," Gwen replied. "Will you two be...?"

"We'll be fine," Peter said, surprising them all with how calm he sounded. There was a sofa in the lobby and he padded over to it.

Curt followed in wonder. "You don't seem as scared as before," he noted.

Peter stared at his shoes and didn't speak for a while. Eventually he said, "I can sense danger."

Curt didn't know how to respond to that, so he just said, "Oh."

"And you're not dangerous."

"I see. I mean, no, of course I'm not. What kind of danger were you expecting?"

Peter gestured to the surroundings of the private hospital in a vague way. "More experiments. Dad said – Dad said you'd want to dissect me. Doctors, I mean, not you personally. I didn't know who you were until a few weeks ago."

Curt watched Peter rummage in his backpack and bring out a stack of photos, held together with a bull clip. From it, he extracted an old, faded photograph. "This is you, right?" Peter asked. "You and my mom? I found it in his study."

Curt took the photo. He remembered it as the only other photograph Richard had in his office, other than the one of Peter. He and Mary were young, college-aged, looking over a piece of work and smiling.

"It is," Curt finally said, conscious of not having spoken for some time. "He kept it?"

"Did you love Dad?" Peter asked abruptly. "He can't have always been - "

"He wasn't," Curt sighed. "Or maybe he was, I don't know. We certainly never thought him capable of..." He trailed off. "We loved him very much. We were happy."

"Until?" Peter prompted. "Why did he leave?"

"It started when Harry was born," Curt began to explain. "He was sickly from the start – he's Norman's child, after all – and Richard grew frantic about, well, mortality. You were born a few weeks later, and you were perfectly healthy -"

"And human," Peter interrupted. "I was born human, right?"

"Of course you are-" Curt stopped short, shocked. _What has Richard been teaching this boy?_

"Go on," Peter said. "Please."

"Well," Curt continued, "Richard started work again on the spider serum after that. He wanted it to be something that would - 'a world without weakness' - that was our tagline. It was supposed to make people heal stronger, faster, cure their illnesses better. It was for sick people, you understand. Like Norman. But Richard wanted to take it further. Create super-powered people. So he gave it to you." Curt paused, and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "I think – I think, a the heart of it, he thought he was doing good. He wanted you to be strong, healthy... to never become ill like other people. Like the Osborns. So he'd never lose you."

"But I'm sick all the time," Peter protested. "Because of the mutation. The serum."

Curt frowned. "That's not possible."

"Okay, let's stick a needle full of the stuff in _you_ every morning and see how you feel," Peter snapped, and then felt guilty, because Curt was looking at him in sorrow and confusion. "Sorry."

" _Every day?"_ Curt repeated.

"Yes. Well. Not today."

"And how do you feel today?"

"Tired," Peter admitted. "My wrists are sore. But... okay, I guess."

"That is... Something we need to talk about further." Curt rubbed his eyes with his hand. "But not tonight. Tonight I just want to get you home safe, if I can."

"What about Dad?" Peter asked quietly. "He'll be looking for me." He took out his phone and handed it to Curt. "He's been calling."

Curt weighed the device in his hand, thinking. "First, I need to call Captain Stacy – Gwen's father. He was the lead detective on your case. And then, Peter, I _really_ need to call your mum."

Peter immediately stiffened. "I know he's been lying, but -"

"But it's still scary. I understand." Curt thought for a moment, then passed the phone back to Peter before digging out his own from his jacket pocket. In his photos on the device was a picture he'd taken on a whim a few days ago, of Mary teaching Billy how to play some card game. He was grinning, having just won, and he was smiling at her with such fondness that Curt smiled too before showing it to Peter.

"That's my wife," he told him. "And our little boy."

"I remember," Peter said softly. "From the park."

Curt watched Peter's fingers curl around the phone, and took the leap. "Can I call your mum?"

Peter took in a deep breath, and then nodded. "You can call my mom."

 

*

 

“Harry?”

Gwen poked her head around the door of Norman’s room. The old man she’d come to know so well was lying still in the bed, with only the soft rise and fall of his chest to show that he was still with them. Harry was asleep too; slumped in the nearby armchair. Gwen took the cashmere scarf that Peter had given back to her and carefully draped it over his sleeping form. She left a bottle of water and a cookie she’d picked up from the cafeteria on the bedside table and made to leave.

A paper-thin voice that called her name. “Gwen…”

She turned to see Norman, eyes open and regarding her fondly.

“I’ll get a nurse,” she said, all in a rush. With what seemed like a considerable effort, Norman shook his head.

“Don’t bother them. How –“ he broke off to wheeze, and gained his breath back while Gwen adjusted the pillows, unsure of what else to do. “How’s my boy doing?”

She sat down on the armchair opposite Harry, still asleep and fitful. “He’s just tired. Worried. It’s been a… a very long night.”

Norman looked at his son. “Always worrying, my boy.” There was a pause in which Gwen thought Norman had fallen back asleep, but at the last moment he spoke again. “Thank you for looking after him.”

“It’s – “ there was a sudden lump in her throat, and she swallowed thickly around it. “He’s my best friend. It’s my pleasure.”

“And I know you’ll be there for him, when I – “ Norman stopped short and started to cough; long, racking coughs that made the bed shake. As Gwen called for the nurse via the help button, Harry woke up and was by his father’s side in an instant.

“Dad! Breathe,” he ordered, rubbing Norman’s back in circular motions. The bottle of water was remembered, and with no embarrassment whatsoever Harry helped tip a little into his father’s mouth, until the wheezing subsided and he began to breathe somewhat normally again. By the time, the nurse had arrived.

“Mr Osborn?” The nurse helped Norman lie back, and started talking to him in a low, soothing voice about the medication he was on, and what had happened since the man had collapsed in his office. Gwen, seeing that Harry was near his wits end, took them both out to the corridor and spent a moment stood close together. Harry buried his face in the crook of Gwen’s shoulder and wouldn’t say anything.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, holding him close. _I know you’ll be there for him, when I…_ “He’ll be okay.”

When the nurse came outside to tell them that Norman had fallen back to sleep, Harry had composed himself. He thanked the nurse and addressed him by name; Gwen realised they must have met several times before, as Harry was always reliably useless with names. Norman was much worse off than she’d realised, then. The thought sent chills through her.

“Let’s go find Curt,” Harry said once the nurse had left them alone. “You left Peter alone with him?”

Gwen bristled slightly. “What, like Curt’s dangerous?”

“No, but Peter’s… you know, flighty.”

“They’re okay, really.” Something had happened to Peter when they left the car, and she couldn’t explain it to Harry because she didn’t quite understand it herself. Peter had just _trusted,_ suddenly. Had looked Curt in the eye and realised that he was someone who meant him no harm. He wasn’t going to run away.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, until reaching the front lobby. “You were right,” Harry acknowledged. Peter was sat on the sofa with Curt, and though he looked visibly overwhelmed by the light and noise and the late hour, he had indeed stayed put. He was answering questions put to him by a tall police officer, someone Gwen immediately recognised as –

“ _Dad!”_

Putting aside all notions of being sophisticated and responsible, Gwen hurtled into her father’s side. It wasn’t until he’d chuckled and enveloped her into a hug that Gwen realised how much the weight of the night had been dragging on her.

“My little Gwendoline,” she heard her father say, amused. “All grown up and solving my cases for me.”

Then she heard Peter, gleeful: “Gwen _doline?_ ”

Gwen extracted herself. “Shut up,” she teased a grinning Peter. “No-one ever calls me Gwendoline.”

“Is Gwendoline making a come-back?” Harry said, having joined them. “Oh my God, _Peter and Wendy._ That’s what we’ll call you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Gwen said. “No. Everyone stop smiling _immediately._ ” She felt smiley and light-headed herself, safe in the knowledge that her father was here, Peter was safe, and she could shed a little of the responsibility that had been pressing down on her. They’d really done it.

“Sit down,” her father told them both. “I’ll need statements from both of you as well, when Peter’s finished.” Her father, the unshakeable authority, had a look of slight awe on his face whenever he looked at Peter or said his name.

“And Richard?” Curt asked. Peter startled beside him.

“I’ve got my best officers out looking,” Captain Stacy promised.

Peter made to say something, and then closed his mouth. His smile had gone. He responded to Captain Stacy’s next questions in a quiet, withdrawn manner. Gwen noticed how he constantly looked at the exits, especially the large glass double doors at the opposite side of the lobby, and how Curt was doing the same.

After ten minutes of sharing stories, Peter shot out of his seat. He wouldn’t say anything, but the four of them turned to see exactly what he was staring at like a rabbit in headlights; the double doors had slid open and stood in front of them, wearing Peter’s exact expression, was Mary Parker.

“Peter,“ Curt said while looking at Gwen, half as a warning. She prepared herself for his flight. “Peter, do you want me to –“

Peter was gone. He ran forward until he was face to face with his mother, who was visibly shaking as she held back tears. Slowly, as if testing she was real, he raised a hand and laid it on her shoulder.

Harry and Gwen exchanged a look of amazement. When they looked back, Peter had fallen into his mother’s arms, and they were both crying. The quiet activity of the lobby ceased around them, so it seemed as if they were the only two people alive in the room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The sarcasm isn’t helping,” Captain Stacy informed him, but he had the decency to look a little contrite. “I know how difficult this must be.”
> 
> Do you? Peter wanted to ask him. Did your father kidnap you? Are you a mutant runaway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look Ma, a reasonably timed update. Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter! They really do make my day. This chapter's a little filler-y, but exciting stuff is up ahead.

_(Harry and Gwen exchanged a look of amazement. When they looked back, Peter had fallen into his mother’s arms, and they were both crying. The quiet activity of the lobby ceased around them, so it seemed as if they were the only two people alive in the room.)_

When the double doors slid open, Peter had stood up with every intention of bolting from the room. A steady stream of panic had been filtering through him ever since Curt had called his mother and he’d heard the garbled (feedback) of hurried questions and crying coming through the phone. Mary Parker – his mother – had promised to get to the hospital as soon as possible.  Curt had smiled, but it hadn’t comforted Peter. Almost unconsciously, he felt around on the sofa for Gwen’s hand. He caught Harry’s instead and immediately began to retract, but Harry caught it and squeezed it tight, a comforting weight and warmth. Silently, Gwen took his other hand as Curt continued to talk on the phone.

“She wants to talk to you,” Curt said. Peter immediately jumped, but looked up to see that Curt was passing the mobile over to Captain Stacy.

“Breathe,” Harry said quietly in his ear. “It’s okay.” He sounded exhausted. “I think Mary just wants to check that Curt’s not having a stroke or something.”

In the background, Captain Stacy reassured his mother that he was real, and that they were all sat in the hospital lobby. They’d attracted a fair amount of attention from the staff and other patients by this point, and Captain Stacy had been patiently but firmly shepherding curious and concerned parties away. Now that he was busy on the phone, Gwen stood up and crossed her arms, daring anyone to come near them. Curt kept touching him; his hair, his shoulder, and every time he leaned into the touch he couldn’t help but think of how much the large, rough hand felt like his father’s and he shied away again. His Dad was still out there. And he knew exactly where he’d be.

With Gwen stood up, he used his free hand to dig out the mobile phone in his pocket. 20 missed calls, and two texts.

_> It’s too cold for you to be out on your own. Stop being ridiculous and pick up the phone._

_> Call me when you’re ready to come home. I’m not angry, just worried._

And then, almost as an afterthought;

_> I love you._

“Stop it,” Harry advised, looking over his shoulder. “It’ll only make you feel bad.”

Guilty, Peter closed the phone, careful of his unpredictable strength. Harry squeezed his hand again. It felt nice; not like Gwen’s, but comforting all the same. He allowed himself to close his eyes for ten seconds, confident in the knowledge that the people around him were safe.

Ten seconds were all he got before his enhanced senses alerted him to a familiar, and yet unfamiliar presence just outside the room. For a wild moment he thought his father had come to find him, and as safe as he felt there, he couldn’t help feeling just a little relieved. The doors then slid open, and Peter shot out of his seat.

The woman in the photograph he’d been treasuring for the last few months was stood just a few feet away from him. She looked older, but no less beautiful. Her eyes were filled with tears and as if in a daze, she mouthed his name. _Peter._

Peter ran. In the seconds between seeing Mary Parker and running to her, the word ‘mother’ had been irreversibly redefined in his head. _Your mother,_ his father would say with a sad look and a curl to his lip. _Your mother,_ Gwen had said to him, pleading. _Your mother,_ the woman he’d had nightmares about as a young child, wrapping himself up in webs until he fell, startled, from the ceiling.

“Mom,” he said shakily when they were at last face-to-face. “ _Mom._ ”

“Peter,” she whispered, and moved as if she wanted to touch him, and then thought better of it. Curt had obviously warned her about him, he realised. Fighting his better instincts, Peter raised his hand to her shoulder.

It was all the confirmation she needed. With a surprising strength, Mary Parker pulled her son into her arms. “It’s okay, baby,” she said, holding him tight as he sobbed like the young boy she’d never been allowed to meet. “I’m here. You’re home.”

*

It was 3:00am before Captain Stacy advised Mary and Curt to take Peter and go home. Gwen had long since fallen asleep on Harry’s shoulder, who had dropped off not long after. Peter was fighting to stay awake, sandwiched in between the warmth and safety of his mother and… well, he’d figure out what to call Curt later.

“What about Dad?” he asked sleepily. “He’ll know where you live.”

“We moved house,” Mary said softly. She hadn’t let go of his arm since they’d re-joined the others. “When we had Billy. He won’t know where to find us.”

Peter remembered the small, blonde boy in the park. “Where is he?”

“Billy? He’s with Ben and May.”

“Ben is Richard’s older brother,” Curt explained, “your Aunt and Uncle. They’re not scientists,” he added quickly, noting Peter’s alarm. “They’re family.”

“Dad’s still family,” Peter mumbled.

Curt and Mary exchanged a look, but didn’t say anything.

“I’ll take Gwen home,” Captain Stacy said, gently shaking his daughter awake. “Come on, princess. You’ve got school in the morning.”

Gwen sat up and looked at him aghast. “You’re kidding.”

“You wanna bet? Come on, home time. Your mom’s going crazy. Mary, Curt, I’ll call at a reasonable hour and we’ll take things from there.” Captain Stacy helped his half-asleep daughter into her coat. “What about this one?” He asked, nodding to Harry.

“Oh, he’s ours,” Curt said. “Part-time, anyway.”

Harry, who deprived of the warmth of Gwen next to him, blinked and was awake in a few moments. “Hmm?”

“Come on, sleepyhead,” Curt said fondly. “We’ll bring you back in the morning.”

“But Dad – “

“Is asleep, and so should you be.”

Harry was too tired to argue, which Curt counted as a blessing. He shrugged on his thin leather jacket and accepted a sleepy goodbye hug from Gwen.

“I don’t understand,” Peter said, after he was given his own hug. “We’re just leaving him out there?” He looked at Captain Stacy for answers, but the man only nodded at him with a sympathetic look.

“The guy we sent to check out your address didn’t find him, Peter, but we will. He won’t find _you,_ and that’s the most important thing. Now get some rest, okay? You look like you’d blow away in a strong wind.”

Peter was inclined to disagree; tired as he was, he felt much stronger than usual, but he accepted the situation as it fell. His father knew how to look after himself. The police hadn’t found him for sixteen years, Peter doubted they would now.

“Ready to go home?” Mary asked. Peter nodded. “Harry, ready?”

“Sure.” Harry joined the group and stood next to Peter. “Let’s go home.”

The journey passed in a blur. Peter couldn’t say for sure when he fell asleep against Harry in the back seat, but he remembered being gently shaken awake by Curt after what felt like only minutes. “We’re home, kids.”

Mary flicked on the lights as they walked in, and squinting, Peter took in his surroundings. The hallway, filled with shoes and bags, lead to an open kitchen and living area. The photographs were the first thing he noticed; several of Mary, Curt, and Harry, and the boy – Billy – around the rooms. He even spotted Gwen in a few. There were drawings too, done with a child’s hand. The living room was homely and cluttered in a way his and Richard’s had never been. He swallowed past a lump in his throat.

“This way, Peter,” Harry nudged him towards the staircase.

“There’s a guest room – your room,” Curt added quickly. “Harry, you can take Billy’s, he’s staying at Ben and May’s.”

Harry nodded, but Peter made a panicked noise he hadn’t been intending, and gripped Harry’s arm. The three of them looked at him, and then Harry shrugged. “We can share. I’m not sure I’d fit in Billy’s bed anyway.”

As Harry left to walk upstairs, Peter looked at his parents. “Thank you,” he said, tired and stupid and not sure what else to say. “I’ll uh, stay put. I promise.”

Mary pulled him into a hug, and he felt Curt’s hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing in comforting circles. They stayed like that for a few moments.

“Come on,” Curt said through a yawn. “We all need to sleep. This way, Peter.” They walked up the stairs in companionable silence, and Peter was pointed towards a bedroom, from which emitted a warm light. He pushed the door open to see Harry, already changed into pyjamas and aimlessly tapping on his phone. He looked up as Peter came in.

“All right?” He asked, and watched Peter nod. Peter was struck by the realisation that he’d never had a friend in his house before; or been in a friend’s house, which felt more appropriate in this case. The ‘guest room’ wasn’t empty; it was clearly somewhere that Harry spent nights, as he and his belongings looked so at home. He wasn’t quite sure any longer how to act around this boy, who was so much more at home with Peter’s family than he was. Suddenly, he felt shy. He shrugged off his backpack and busied himself with finding the clean t-shirt and pyjama shorts he’d shoved hastily in there, what felt like several days ago.

“You sure you want me to stay?” Harry asked. “I won’t be offended – “

“I do,” Peter said quickly, though he didn’t catch his eye. “I can make a web on the ceiling, don’t worry.”

“You can _what_?” Harry shook his head in amazement. “Okay, we’ll talk about _that_ later. But you look exhausted. Just sleep in the bed, it’s big enough for both of us.” Harry pulled back the covers as if to punctuate his point and slid in neatly. Peter hesitated, then got in beside him. He never usually slept well in beds, but Harry was right, he was exhausted. Harry looked at him for a moment: deep into Peter’s eyes. “Welcome home.”

Peter closed his eyes and didn’t respond. People were home. His mother and Curt were home, and so was his father. Gwen and Harry felt like home, or felt like they could be.  He had always moved around too much for any building to feel like home. Peter waited until Harry’s breathing evened out and silently slipped out of the bed. The phone in his backpack still had 20% charge; he had no new messages or missed calls, but he knew that didn’t mean his father had stopped looking. He’d known Richard to go for days without sleeping whenever he was on a particularly tough project.

He opened the last message, _I love you,_ and clicked ‘Reply’. His fingers hovered over the keys, deciding on what to write. He knew that Captain Stacy wouldn’t want him writing anything, but he couldn’t sleep.

Eventually, he decided on ‘ _I’m safe. I can look after myself.’_  That way Peter didn’t betray the information of who he was with, but his father would know that he wasn’t freezing on the streets. He sent it, and then added, ‘ _I love you too. I’m sorry.’_

Peter waited five minutes, but no reply came, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Turning off the phone he climbed back into the bed, careful not to jostle Harry too much as he did so. He was asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.

*

Richard couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t tell how light it was outside from his spot underground, but his watch told him that it was nearing 4:00 am. He _couldn’t_ sleep. Not when Peter was alone and likely lost in unfriendly New York city in late autumn, nearly winter. His son was partially cold-blooded and they’d found out the consequences of that the hard way one winter, when he’d been caught in a rainstorm. It had been the worst night of Richard’s life; he’d even considered taking Peter to a hospital, but he’d convinced Peter of the dangers of hospitals so successfully over the years that Peter had sprung away from him and clung to the wall the second Richard mentioned it. Aside from the violent shivers, he wouldn’t move or be moved. Richard had spent the whole night sat up with him, piling him up in blankets and making him drink hot water until he finally stopped shivering and his skin turned warm.

Richard thought now about Peter shivering on the streets of New York and screamed in frustration, kicking the ancient computer towers stacked in front of him. His weak, beautiful, _stupid_ son. Only weak because Richard loved him too much to risk losing him, and look where that had got him. Peter had left him anyway. Richard wasn’t sure of his next move. He couldn’t go back to the flat; his sensors told him that there were people there, most likely policemen, which meant that Peter had been picked up by the authorities and was practically lost to him forever. He had no Plan B for this situation. The practical part of his brain told him to run, far away, to avoid being captured and his work lost to idiots who’d never understand the good he could do.

 _But it was never about the good,_ Richard admitted to himself, and only himself. _It was about Peter._

He would _not_ leave without him.

Richard had long since stopped looking at his phone. Peter hadn’t responded to any messages or calls, and knowing his son’s propensity for swinging around buildings, the damned thing had probably fallen out of his pocket. So when a chime rang out from the device at 4:02am, he didn’t pick it up for ten seconds out of shock until it chimed again.

Two messages came up on the screen when he finally unlocked the phone, and he opened them shakily. _I’m safe. I can look after myself,_ the first one read. Richard let out a sigh of relief, and tried to forget the image of Peter passing out in cold autumn rain. The second one said _I love you too. I’m sorry._

Richard felt himself smile. Peter wouldn’t have sent those messages if he didn’t still trust him. There was still hope.

*

Curt woke up with the weak autumn sun on his face and his wife curled up next to him, her head on his chest. He played idly with her hair for a moment, before he remembered the events of last night and sat up straight. Mary pushed him back down with her eyes still closed.

“Oof.”

“I already checked,” she said, blinking blearily. “He’s still there.”

“When did you get up?”

“About once every half hour. It was like having a baby again,” Mary said. She laughed at her own joke, and then clapped a hand to her mouth. Curt grinned at her.

“Both our boys under one roof. Can you believe it?”

“I want to go check again,” she whispered, returning his smile. “Should we go check again?”

Curt yawned, stretched his arm and back, and hunted around for his glasses. “They’ll wake up when they’re hungry. What time is it?”

“10am,” Mary informed him. “No missed calls – except May.” She turned on her voicemail while Curt made his way to the bathroom. May’s chipper voice came through the phone, telling them both that they’d dropped Billy off at school, and wanted to know if she should pick him up at 3. Mary smiled to herself. Unshakeable, May Parker. She’d dealt with Mary last night, hysterical and in a rush, and had taken Billy under her wing immediately with a smile and shepherded him off to bed. Mary had promised to tell her everything as soon as she could.

Curt poked his head round the door of the bathroom. “Billy?” he asked, around the toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

“At school,” she said. “Probably exhausted, bless him.”

“He’s going to come home to quite a surprise,” Curt replied. He finished brushing and spat. “George will call soon, I assume. Do you want the shower first?”

Mary smirked at him. “You’re going to go check on the boys, aren’t you?”

“Guilty,” Curt nodded affably.

“Come join me after.”

“Yes ma’am.” Curt pressed a kiss to Mary’s cheek in passing, grabbed his dressing gown and shrugged it on. Out in the hallway, he saw the guest bedroom door was half open and panicked for a split second, before he saw a tuft of brown hair peeking out from a lump in the bedclothes. Harry was sat on the top of the stairs and nodded at him in acknowledgement.

“Okay?” Curt mouthed. Harry nodded.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” Harry said quietly into the phone. “Thank you for the update.”

“Norman?” Curt asked.

“Fine,” Harry replied. “They’re sending him home at midday.” He jerked a head towards the bedroom. “Peter’s fine. Slept through the night, I think, I only woke up ten minutes ago when the hospital called.”

Curt blinked, and then smiled at them both. “If I wasn’t a scientist, I’d call this all a miracle.”

“Call it one anyway,” Harry advised. “We could do with more miracles. Curt…” he seemed to be searching for the right words. “Dad might need you at the hospital, you know.”

“I know,” Curt nodded. “I’ll come round as soon as he’s settled at home. Don’t worry,” he said, ruffling Harry’s hair. “No-one’s going to forget about Norman because of this. Just think how excited he’ll be when we tell him.”

*

Peter could smell an array of breakfast food and he was starving, but a fit of shyness had come on him and instead of entering the kitchen where his family were, he was toeing the carpet outside and trying to will himself to move.

“Peter?”

Taken aback, Peter jumped up and found himself stuck to the wall. He could have cursed.

“Oh,” his mother said, staring in awe. “My God. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you… How are you doing that?”

Peter gave her an awkward wave, wincing at her gasp as he let go of the wall and stayed put. “Sorry. Uh, I can just do it. I’m sticky. Like a spider,” he explained lamely. He brought himself down slowly until they were stood face to face. “I can do a lot of weird things.”

Mary’s stare softened, and she smiled. “Does that include coming in for breakfast?”

Peter nodded. “I can do that.”

He followed her in to the kitchen. Curt was stirring a pot on the stove and Harry was idly taking bites of toast. Captain Stacy, who Peter had heard arrive while getting out of bed, looked up at him as he walked in. Peter looked around for Gwen, but was disappointed.

“There’s no word on Richard,” Curt told him, pushing a bowl of oatmeal his way. Peter took it gratefully and busied himself with spooning honey on top.

“He didn’t go home?” He finally asked, once he’d found his voice.

“We had a guy stationed there all night,” Captain Stacy informed him. “No sign of your father.”

“There are sensors in the flat,” Peter said. “He would have known that someone was there.” He swallowed down a spoonful of oatmeal, suddenly realising that he hadn’t eaten properly in far too long. His enhanced metabolism was not fond of him skipping meals. “Someone who wasn’t me,” he added.

“I see.” Captain Stacy let him finish his bowl before pressing him with more questions. “What if I sent someone your height and weight to the flat?”

“He already knows I’m not going back. He’s not stupid.”

“You could call him and say you were.”

Peter frowned at him. “You’re not using me as _bait_ for my dad.”

“You’d be perfectly safe,” Captain Stacy tried to reassure him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

The kitchen went very quiet. Peter stared at the officer mutinously. He hadn’t asked for any policemen to get involved.

“Peter…” Mary said, helplessly. Captain Stacy looked at her, and then looked at Peter.

“May I speak to you alone?” He gestured to the living room area just outside the kitchen. Peter sighed a little, stared at the breakfast table, and then nodded.

As he got up to leave, Harry wordlessly passed him a buttered slice of toast. He and Harry were going to be _best_ friends, Peter decided.

When the door had been closed and they were sat on the sofa, Captain Stacy asked him another question.

“Peter, why did you leave your father?”

“Because he’d been lying to me,” Peter answered simply.

“In what way?”

The patience was starting to get on Peter’s nerves. “He told me I was born sick, and I wasn’t. He told me my mom hated me, and she doesn’t. He never told me about Curt. I could go on. Do you want me to write down a list?”

“The sarcasm isn’t helping,” Captain Stacy informed him, but he had the decency to look a little contrite. “I know how difficult this must be.”

 _Do you?_ Peter wanted to ask him. _Did your father kidnap you? Are you a mutant runaway?_

“Sure,” he said instead, after swallowing half a piece of toast. “It’s hard. Not how I expected my week to go.”

“Why did you and Richard come to New York?” The Captain asked. “He must have known it would be dangerous.”

Peter chose his next words very carefully. “He wanted to access some research that he couldn’t find anywhere else.”

“At Oscorp?”

“No.”

“Do you know where?”

Peter paused for just a moment. “Yes.” There was no point in lying.

Captain Stacy nodded. “And you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Arresting him won’t un-mutant me.” Peter didn’t want to see his father in handcuffs. All he wanted was a normal life. To go to school, and explore the city, and have friends. Maybe even a girlfriend. (He’d keep that part quiet from the Captain.)

 _But you don’t want to see him again,_ a small voice in Peter’s head piped up. _Not just yet._

“Peter, you know your father committed a crime.”

Peter shrugged. “I broke into Oscorp. Are you going to arrest me?”

“No, of course not,” the Captain sighed. “But you’re not making it easy.”

 Peter felt the door open, just incrementally; the vibrations that came from the wood as it brushed past the thick carpet hit his skin and he shivered. He didn’t feel as sensitive to noise as he usually did, but he was still enhanced enough to know when someone was behind him. His mother, he thought. Captain Stacy made no move to acknowledge her.

Peter suddenly thought about how his mother had lived in the last fourteen years. Always searching for him. Always trying to understand why his father did what he did. His father didn’t deserve to go to prison, Peter was sure of that. But his mother… she deserved an explanation.

“It’s called Roosevelt.” Peter looked at the Captain, but his words were for Mary. He heard his mom’s breath hitch, and knew that she knew what he meant. “And that's all I know.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And what time do you call this?” Richard asked with his eyes still glued to the computer. A wave of relief washed over him. He and Peter had done this before – admittedly, never for this long – but Peter always came back after a fight, shy and moody and touch-starved. They could be out of the city before the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER, GUYS.  
> The last chapter will probably be a long one, and it's Camp NaNoWriMo this month, so this will have to tide you over for a little while. In the meantime, come hang out with me on Tumblr! Hit me up @bunnybanner to talk about all things Spider-Man. I also have a fun little soulmate au I'm dying to chat about.  
> Enjoy this chapter, see you in a month!

“It’s called Roosevelt,” Peter said for the second time that week. “It was a secret subway station for the president, or whatever. I don't know if that's actually true, but Dad used it as a lab whenever he was in New York.”

Harry and Gwen sat either side of him, on a park bench opposite the police station. It was the winter holiday; nearing Christmas, and though it wasn’t snowing the air was bitingly cold and all three were wrapped up in hats and scarves. Curt, mindful of Peter’s cold blood, had covered him with layers with Billy’s help until he resembled a snowman. Peter had accepted the fussing manfully. He liked Curt, a lot, and he _loved_ Billy. Peter had always wanted a little brother. When he was little; and tired, and sick, and hurting, he’d hole up in his room and pretend he had a younger brother to look after. A spider-child like him. He would lie in a web and explain to him what their father was doing, and why, and that one day they would get better.

He had never told his father this.

“And Mary knew how to get in?” Gwen asked, breaking Peter out of his thoughts.

Peter shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I assumed she would know how, but I didn’t think she’d…” he let the words hang in the air, unspoken. “I’m mad at her,” he said suddenly, staring straight ahead so he wouldn’t have to meet either of their stares. “Is that awful?”

“No,” Harry said immediately. “He’s your father. He raised you.”

“Didn’t do a great job,” Peter replied, surly.

“Didn’t do too badly,” Gwen countered, poking him affectionately in the side. “You know, except for the whole… experimentation thing.”

Peter suppressed a wince at the “e” word, as he and Harry had taken to calling it. It was still a fresh, raw wound in his mind; the knowledge that all this time, his father hadn’t been “managing” his condition, but playing with it. A few days away from Richard’s chemicals and injections and he already felt stronger, warmer, more focused. The noises of the city didn’t bother him as much anymore and even his eyesight was getting better. Better than most humans, even.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked.

“How are _you_ feeling?” Peter repeated, anxious to get away from the subject. Harry liked to joke about being ill together, which Peter knew they wouldn’t be for much longer. “It’s not too cold?”

“Don’t fuss over _me,_ ” Harry yawned. “I could do this all day. Although. Not that I don’t _love_ staking out police stations, but…” He turned and grimaced at Peter. “For the love of God, give me something to do. Coffee run? Bagels?”

“There’s movement!” Gwen interjected. “Is that…”

Peter leaned forward and squinted, then fell back. “No, that’s not mom.”

Gwen slumped back down in her seat. “Okay. Coffee would be _great_.”

*

_The day before_

Mary and Curt picked Billy up from school, and after a short period of shyness, he wouldn’t be separated from Peter’s side. Mary watched the two of them, nestled on the sofa as Billy showed Peter a museum collection’s worth of the bric-a-bac of their life; everything from photo albums to school reports, journal articles and his favourite books. Peter devoured everything from pictures to swimming certificates with equally rapt attention.

Mary paused in the doorway of the living room, leaning on Curt’s shoulder to watch her boys. She had meant to leave the house at least ten minutes ago.

“You’re sure George doesn’t need me there as well?” Curt asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the other two.

“No, he just called for me. I think it’s about those pointless DNA tests, and all that.” She knew Curt hated to be reminded that he wasn’t Peter’s biological father, and felt awful, but he seemed to understand. “I won’t be long,” she promised. “Home in time for dinner.”

“Be safe,” Curt said as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. She went over to the boys and hugged them both, explaining that she had to go to the station for a little while. Billy shrugged after returning the quick cuddle and went back to the stack of photos, but Peter hung back and looked at her oddly. As if he could see through her.

“I won’t be long,” Mary repeated for Peter.

“Say hi to Captain Stacy for me,” he murmured, still looking at her with that strange, questioning gaze. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded at him, and he settled back down. She ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead, and left quickly. Outside, in the cold, she shivered and wrapped her scarf more tightly around her. She warmed her hands in her coat as she walked to the subway. Her fingers brushed against the cold, grey metal in her pocket.

The police station that Captain Stacy ran was a half hour’s trip from Mary and Curt’s house. Forty minutes after she left, Mary was still on the subway. The stop she would have gotten off at, had her story been true, had passed and she had four left to go. Five, if one were technical about it, but the fifth stop wasn’t shown on the map. Roosevelt never had been.

Across town, Mary’s second husband checked the clock on the wall. “Time for bed,” he sighed reluctant to break up his sons chatter. Billy whined immediately – _but dad!_ – but Curt shook his head. “It’s way past your bed time, kiddo. Go on; pyjamas and brushed teeth, please.”

Billy grumbled, but couldn’t quite mask the yawn that escaped him as he slid down from the sofa. “Fine,” he sighed, and acquiesced to a goodnight hug from his father. Curt held him close for a little longer than usual, as he’d been prone to do for the last few days.

Billy squirmed. _“Da-ad._ ”

Curt chuckled as he let him go. “Is your bag packed for the morning?”

Billy nodded and gestured vaguely to the backpack near the door. He then turned back to face the sofa. His arms jerked out slightly, and then he stopped, as if considering things.

Curt held his breath.

“C’mere,” Peter said fondly. As Curt exhaled, smiling, Billy rushed into his brother’s outstretched arms.

They both said ‘night’, and when Billy detached himself he mumbled, “I’m glad you’re here,” and immediately scampered off; embarrassed and excited in perfect eleven-year-old style. Curt smiled as he watched his son bound up the stairs, and then turned back to Peter. To his dismay, Peter had tears in his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Curt asked softly.

Peter startled and ducked his head in shyness, shaking the tears away. “Better,” he said. “Strength and balance are up, vision is improved, adhesive qualities are more controlled – “ He broke off as Curt shook his head.

“No, no, I meant…” Curt swallowed around a lump in his throat. God, Richard had really done a number on his kid. “I meant… emotionally.”

“Oh.” Peter couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. “I’m doing okay.”

Curt moved to sit down. “Still a little overwhelmed?” he guessed.

“It’s been a long day,” Peter agreed. “And…” he trailed off, and wouldn’t look Curt in the eye. “You won’t like it.”

“You miss your father,” Curt said. It wasn’t a question. At Peter’s shocked, guilty intake of breath, he smiled ruefully and squeezed his son’s hand. “It’s not rocket science, Peter. And it’s… It’s completely understandable.”

“He experimented on me,” Peter said dully. “And lied to me, and kept me from you. And broke the law. I should hate him. I do, kinda. But you’re right, I miss him.” Peter had not wanted to admit this to his new parents. He expected Curt to argue with him, or to look sad and brush it aside.

Instead, Curt said: “I miss him too.”

He did look sad, but it was a wistful kind of sorrow that Peter understood well.

Peter said, quietly, “I have pictures, if you want to see them.”

“I’d like that very much,” Curt said. As Peter let go of his hand and climbed the stairs to retrieve them, Curt walked over to the kitchen, flicked the kettle on and started pulling mint leaves from the herb planter on the windowsill. The tea was just starting to brew as Peter came down with an index card folder full of photos. As he came near the counter he sniffed and perked up, like a dog hearing a whistle, and smiled. His smile still blew Curt away every time.

“Tea?” Curt asked. “You may not have had it like this before.”

“I have,” Peter said, a little shyly. “Dad makes it like this.”

Curt frowned as he checked the water and poured out a cup. “Richard used to hate mint tea.”

“He still does,” Peter agreed. “He just made it for me. Because there’s no caffeine. And he says he likes the smell.”

Curt contemplated this as Peter dipped his face into the minty steam and inhaled deeply. Making mint tea had always been Curt’s evening ritual; even when he was a broke college student in a dorm room with Richard, using cheap teabags and microwaved water. It was a calming process, and one he would never have thought of Richard to adopt.

He’d never contemplated the idea that Richard missed _him._

“Here you go,” Peter said after a sip of tea. He pushed the folder across the breakfast counter to Curt, who opened it slowly. Inside were at least a hundred photographs, mostly in black and white. Peter started to divide them into sections as Curt watched.

“Pre-colour-blindness,” he explained, nudging a stack of colour photos. “This isn’t all of them. There are boxes and boxes at hom- with Dad.”

Curt picked up one of the colour photos at random. Richard was there; analysing something over a microscope. Peter had captured him looking up briefly: an indulgent smile on his face. In another Peter had taken a picture of himself in a long, ornate mirror. There was nothing else reflected in the room but moving-boxes and a desk chair. He was much smaller, and pale, and there were bandages on his arms, but he was smiling. Curt looked at some of the more recent pictures that Peter put towards him. Some of Richard, but mostly tourist shots of New York. He picked up one beautiful shot of Gwen Stacy, and smirked.

Peter squirmed. “I take pictures of _everything,_ ” he protested, but then laughed when Curt did.

The oldest picture; creased and faded, was the one of him and Mary that Peter had shown him in the hospital. He passed over it in favour of what looked like the second oldest. Curt picked it up and stifled a gasp at the sight of Richard as he’d once known him; younger, dark-haired, with a baby in his arms. Except that the Peter in the picture was a year or two older than the baby he had stolen away. Richard was holding out the camera in front of him, and Peter was grinning. His chubby toddler’s arms were reaching out to grab the device, or maybe just to wave. Peter didn’t look like a child who had been experimented on. He looked like a normal, healthy boy, being held by his father.

Curt put the photo down and steadied himself with a sip of tea. Peter was watching him like a worried hawk.

“These are really good,” he said. “When did you first start taking pictures?”

“I got the camera for my 11th birthday,” Peter said, obviously pleased. “I develop them myself.”

“Mary will love to see them.” Struck by a sudden thought, Curt glanced at the clock on the wall of the kitchen. “Speaking of…”

Peter tensed immediately.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Curt mused, half to himself.

“Do I have to go to bed too?” Peter asked quickly, with a forced smile.

“No,” Curt laughed. “Not yet, anyway. I’ve never given a bedtime to a sixteen-year-old before, I’m not entirely sure how one would go about it.”

“You could try,” Peter said. “I’m kind of nocturnal. It’s a light thing.”

Curt looked at him oddly for a moment; the same kind of look his mother gave him, whenever she badly wanted to ask him something but was afraid of digging up painful memories. Peter shrugged through it. In time, he imagined he’d want to tell Curt everything. Right now, he was kind of enjoying being normal.

“What about school?” He asked suddenly. “I know it’s holidays now, but… I could start, right? I’ve done the home schooling program properly. We used to make pretend exam rooms in the kitchen. Dad bought a whiteboard and everything.”

“I don’t see why not,” Curt said, smiling at Peter’s story. “I imagine you’ll want to go to the same school as Gwen and Harry? I’m sure you could start in the spring term.”

“Yeah,” Peter grinned. “I’d like that.” He watched Curt glance nervously at the clock again. “Uh, bedtimes aside,” he interjected. “I’m gonna, um…”

“Sure,” Curt said. “Do you- need anything?” Some officers from the police precinct had brought Peter’s things, or most of them, from the abandoned apartment. His books and clothes, toothbrush, his skateboard and, embarrassingly, his childhood soft toys. They were keeping the boxes of photos as part of the investigation but had promised to give them back.

Peter shook his head. “I’m okay.”

“Good night, then,” Curt said with a soft smile.

Peter wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hug him good night, or something similar, but Curt solved the problem by squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner and then moved away to clear up the tea things. Peter accepted it gracefully, cursed his awkwardness, and hoped it would get better with time.

He hoped he _had_ time. When he got to his room, which felt much more _his_ now his things were there, he didn’t stop walking until he reached the window. At the thought of Billy next door and Curt downstairs, he stopped. After scrawling a quick note and putting it on the pillow, Peter lifted the sash, and jumped out.

_I promise I’m coming back. I made a mistake. I gotta go get mom._

_\- Peter_

*

Richard heard the sound of the old, creaky turnstile before the silent alarm went off to alert him to an intruder in Roosevelt. He didn’t panic; only one other person in New York knew about the station.

“And what time do you call this?” Richard asked with his eyes still glued to the computer. A wave of relief washed over him. He and Peter had done this before – admittedly, never for this long – but Peter always came back after a fight, shy and moody and touch-starved. They could be out of the city before the morning.

“Honey,” his wife called out. “I’m home.”

Richard span around. Stood firm in the entrance to Roosevelt was Mary Parker, staring at him with unbridled hatred in her eyes and a gun in her hand.

“Well,” Richard said, as soon as he’d gotten his voice back. “How long has it been, dear?”

“ _Enough_.”

Richard dipped his head, and allowed himself a smile. “Are you going to shoot me, Mary?”

Mary’s hand wavered, but her voice was steady. “I will if you don’t give yourself up.”

“Why didn’t you just call the police if you knew where I was?”

“Because,” Mary said, “I want everything you have on Peter before they get it. I don’t want them to know what you did.”

“You don’t want them to know about what our son really is,” Richard confirmed.

“ _My son._ You lost all rights to him when you turned him into your own personal experiment!”

“Mary, sit down.” At her unconvinced look, Richard sighed. “You’ve got all the advantage here. I’m not armed. Just sit down so we can talk.”

After a few tense moments, Mary acquiesced to take a seat on the desk. She kept her gun trained on Richard.

“How’s Peter?” he asked as soon as she was comfortable. “Is he adjusting? Is he sick?”

“He’s probably healthier today than he ever has been with you,” she spat out. “He says he feels stronger and his eyesight is better. But he’s confused, and scared.”

“Does he like his new little brother?”

Mary looked up, shocked.

“You know about Billy?”

Richard allowed his voice to turn gentle, compassionate. “Did you think I wasn’t keeping up with you? My partners? He looks like a fine boy, Mary.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

“I suppose Curt’s happy. He got the girl.”

At that, she sprang up and raised a hand as if to slap him, but thought better of herself. “ _Curt loved you._ You piece of shit. You devastated him.”

“It wasn’t easy,” said Richard softly. “It took everything I had. But you would never have allowed it, and I knew Peter could be so much _more_ than what the human body dictates to us.”

“ _Shut up._ God,” Mary shouted, exhausted. “Shut the fuck up, Richard. Your ‘world without weakness’ is bullshit, and it has cost us _too much._ Enough now. Shut this down.” She gestured to the computer system he’d set up. “Send me everything, and shut it down.”

“Before you send me off to prison,” Richard said, almost conversationally as he moved to carry out her order, “Would you let me see him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“And what if he wants to see me?” The silent alarm that Richard had shut down upon seeing Mary had started up again: a blue light that she was ignoring in favour of staring at him in incredulous anger. “Look at this,” he said, pushing his phone towards her. The last text he'd gotten from Peter lit up the screen.

_\- I love you too. I’m sorry._

You may have him, but that doesn’t mean you’ve won him _,_ Richard thought.

“Maybe he wants to come home,” Richard said instead, mindful of the sound of trainers scuffing the metal pipes overhead. “He’s all alone with strangers. He’s a very sensitive boy, Mary.”

“I am _not_ a stranger. I’m his mother!”

“He doesn’t even know you. I’m not saying he _shouldn’t,_ but I’d just like to see him. We could work together on this.”

“No.” Mary raised the gun again. “I’m not falling for this again. Send the files, and shut it down.”

“ _Mary._ ”

Two sounds rang out in the room; the click of the safety catch, and a small gasp. Mary looked up.

“Peter?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter looked long and searchingly at his father. White haired and exhausted, he didn’t look like a man who could experiment on a child.  
> “It’s not my decision,” Peter said. “You broke the law, I guess. You have to deal with the consequences of that.”

“Mom! Please don’t.”

Mary stood, stunned as Peter dropped from the ceiling to land lightly on his feet in front of his father, who was holding up his hands in defence.

“Peter, move out of the way,” Richard said sharply.

“No,” Peter said, without looking back at him. “I won’t let her hurt you. And I won’t let _you_ hurt _her._ ”

“She’s the one with the _loaded gun!”_ Richard protested.

Peter cocked his head to one side, as if considering this. “He has a point there. Mom, would you please put that down so we can all talk?”

“Peter, darling,” Mary sighed, but her hand was already lowering the gun. She placed it on the countertop beside her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t tell you he was here so you could come and _shoot_ him.”

“You told her I was here?” Richard said, affronted. “Peter – “

“ _Stop it._ ” With one quick movement, Peter webbed up the gun, sticking it to the counter. He winced only slightly as the webbing shot through the spinneret in his wrist that had been slowly forming and strengthening over the past few days. Richard grabbed it and stared. There was no blood.

“Both of you,” Peter said, keeping his voice as steady as he could manage. “Stop it. You’re my parents, aren’t you? Act like it.”

“I’m sorry,” Richard said. With his fingers still encircled around Peter’s wrist, he guided him closer. “I’m sorry. Come here. Please, come here.” Richard drew him in close and Peter allowed himself to be held tight by his father like the last few days had never happened. Like he was a child having a nightmare. Peter buried his head in Richard’s shoulder and let out a long, shaky breath.

Then he stepped back. “Send her the files,” Peter said. “I want all of it. I want to understand everything. I won’t give it to Oscorp.”

“Peter – “ Mary said, stepping forward. “Oscorp isn’t the enemy.”

“I don’t care,” Peter said. “I want to read it for myself first. And then you can. At home.”

Mary looked at him, and then nodded. “We’ll go home.”

“And what about me?” Richard asked softly. “What do you want to happen to me, Petey?”

Peter looked long and searchingly at his father. White haired and exhausted, he didn’t look like a man who could experiment on a child.

“It’s not my decision,” Peter said. “You broke the law, I guess. You have to deal with the consequences of that.”

“You want them to send me to prison?” Richard asked. “Do you think I deserve that?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Mary said.

Peter said nothing, and then said “Mom,” quietly. As Richard started loading files onto a cumbersome flash drive, she took Peter to the side of the lab. They spoke in hushed tones.

“I have a plan,” Peter said. He dug his right hand into his jeans pocket and kept it there. “But I don’t know if I want to do it anymore.”

“You know we can’t let him go,” Mary told him. “Peter, you were right. He has to deal with the consequences.”

“Is that why you came here with a gun?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “To send him to prison?”

Mary looked over at Richard, working on the computer. He betrayed no signs of hearing their conversation. Amidst the beeps and bustles of computers they could speak freely, if quietly.

“It’s not loaded,” she admitted. “I would never carry a loaded gun. I just wanted to scare him. But I think I ended up scaring you. That’s the last thing I wanted, Peter.”

“I know,” he said, and meant it. “I trust you. You’re gonna have to trust me for the next bit.”

Mary nodded, and brought a hand up to his face: a motherly gesture he was still getting used to. As he smiled, the corner of his mouth reached towards the creases of her palm. “You’re so grown-up,” she said. “And I missed it.”

“I don’t feel grown up,” Peter replied. He felt very young, and very tired. “After this, I just – I just wanna go home.”

There was a pause. He thought he saw Mary blink away a tear.

“With you,” he clarified quickly.

She smiled, and his father coughed, interrupting. They both looked over to see Richard waving a flash drive at them.

“It’s all here.”

“Sure it is,” said Peter, deadpan and disbelieving, but he took it anyway. “That didn’t take long?”

“Failsafe,” Richard shrugged. “In case we had to evacuate in a hurry.”

“Just you,” Peter reminded him.

He thought about those words. _Just you._ He could do it, he thought. He could let his father go: escape. Richard Parker could slip through one of the many hidden exits of Roosevelt station and be a free man. Estranged from his son, and hated by his wife and partner, but free. And if he wanted, Peter could see him again. In the future.

Peter allowed himself to think about it for just a moment. He then resigned himself to the idea that it would be much easier to visit his father in prison than on the run, anyway.

“So I suppose this is over,” Peter said. He looked at his father who stood before him like a statue; calm and confident, not fidgeting, not pleading. Not even running. “I’m really sorry,” Peter said to him, and meant it. He took his hand out of his jeans pocket, and brought out the phone he had nestled in there. He only had to press two buttons before the line connected. “Gwen? Now, I guess.”

At the entrance to Roosevelt, Gwen Stacy held her phone to her head with a steady hand and wide eyes. She nodded at her father. “Now.”

Shouts came from the tunnel entrance and echoed around. Peter took his mother’s arm and stepped backwards, feeling much younger and much less confident than he had five seconds before.

Mary clasped his hand. “Well done, kid,” she whispered, and squeezed it tight.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that whatever happened now was out of his hands. Police officers filed in and surrounded them. Captain Stacy nodded grimly at them both. Gwen wasn’t there; he imagined her waiting for him upstairs and outside, and felt a little better. When this was all over, he thought to himself, he was going to do the most teenage thing he could think of and take his beautiful rescuer on a date. Something normal, that didn’t involve any secret labs or policemen. Ice cream, maybe.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shout. _“Put down the gun.”_

Time seemed to stop. Peter looked up and started forward as he saw his father pick up the gun he’d sliced free from its webbed net. He seemed to almost ponder it with a scientist’s thoughtful gaze. It was pointed aimlessly at the group: but ready to be aimed.

A shot rang out.

Peter registered, numbly, that he had never seen his father bleed before. It had always been Peter’s blood on his father’s hands. He could also hear screaming, and it wasn’t until Mary grabbed him and pulled him in close that Peter realised the scream was his.

Richard sunk to the floor, defeated as Captain Stacy, flanked by police men either side, surrounded him. Peter turned his face into his mother’s arm as they handcuffed his father. He couldn’t look at his face.

“Get the boy out of here,” Captain Stacy said to an officer at the side, who nodded, and approached Peter and Mary.

“If you’d come with me,” she said gently. Mary nodded, and led Peter past the scene of the arrest. He was too numb to resist.

“Peter!” Richard called out as he crossed the threshold.

Peter turned his head. His father was knelt on the floor, looking up at him. His left arm clutched the shoulder where the bullet had hit him. Blood pooled through his fingers, but he didn’t collapse or scream. He didn’t even look angry; he simply said, “I love you.”

“Come on, Peter,” Mary said.

Peter took one last look at his father and stepped through the broken turnstile, out into the cold night air.

*

“No-one was supposed to get hurt,” Peter said furiously, as soon as the Captain returned from the hospital where his father was under armed guard. “That was the deal.”

“Peter,” the Captain sighed. He rubbed at his eyes and looked at him imploringly. It had been a long night for everyone. “He had a _gun_.”

“ _It wasn’t loaded._ ”

“And how were we supposed to know that? _Your_ safety was our top priority. Yours and your mother’s.”

“He’s going to be okay, Peter.”

Peter heard Curt’s voice and spun around. Curt was standing in the doorway, looking pale, though he smiled comfortingly at him. Everyone else went quiet.

“He is?” Peter asked. His voice wavered, like a child’s.

Curt nodded. “It was a clean wound; the bullet went straight through, and didn’t hit anything vital. He got some new blood. He’ll be fine.”

Peter let out a breath in relief. His shoulders sagged. For the first time, he realised how tired he was, and let himself lean against his mother, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders. She was looking at Curt with something akin to suspicion.

“Are you okay?” She asked him, putting a pointed emphasis on the ‘you.’

Curt nodded again. “I could do with some sugar,” he admitted, “but it’s fine.” He turned to address Captain Stacy. “Can I take them home?”

“I’ll probably need to see all three of you at the station tomorrow,” Captain Stacy said, “but for now, yeah, go home. Get some rest.

“Is Gwen still here?” Peter asked. He badly wanted to see her before they went home. They’d only briefly locked eyes before they were both hurried away by parents but he could see how worried she’d been. He regretted asking her to be involved, but knowing she was outside, just a call away, had made climbing into Roosevelt just that bit more bearable.

“No,” Captain Stacy answered. “It’s late, I sent her home. I’m sure you can see her in the morning.”

Peter nodded and allowed himself, reluctantly, to be lead outside.

Mary watched Curt take out his keys as they approached the car. “Do you want me to drive?”

Curt shook his head. “You hate driving this car.”

She took the keys from him. “You need to rest your arm. It’s fine.” As Mary adjusted the driving seat to her preferences, Curt slid in beside Peter. Peter looked at him, how pale he looked, and something _clicked._

“You gave dad the blood transfusion,” Peter said.

Curt looked at him in surprise. “Yes,” he said.

“Seatbelts on,” Mary called from the front. Peter dutifully did his up.

“Why you?” Peter asked. It wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say; not _why you,_ but more _why would you?_ “Did you talk to him?”

Curt paused. “No,” he said. “Richard and I both have a rather rare blood type – we’re both B negative – and I’m listed as his next of kin because of it. But we were in separate rooms. It didn’t take long.”

“I could have done it,” Peter said softly. “I’m B negative, and I’m used to needles.”

There was a pause as Curt regarded Peter sadly, expression visible even in the low light of the car as Mary drove through the dark streets. “That’s not the point,” Curt said, finally. “Besides, it’s done now.”

They spent the rest of the car journey in a kind of tense silence, and Peter was on edge until he remembered the phone in his pocket and how it had more than one number in now. He pulled it out, winced at the bright light that assaulted his senses, and squinted at the text message list, finding the last one from Harry. He hadn’t quite gotten over the novelty of being able to text his friends: or even having friends, come to that.

He opened the text to see it was a group message. The last message from Harry read:

 **H:** _JFC, could one of you please keep me updated?_

As Peter watched, three dots sprang up at the bottom of the screen. They moved around until a new message popped up.

 **G:** _My phone died! I’m home. I don’t know about Peter, Dad kinda pulled me away in a hurry. Richard got shot in the shoulder but I think he’s going to be fine?_

Peter started typing, and deleting, and then typing again.

 **P:** _Dad’s in the hospital. He had a blood transfusion and is going to be okay. Except for the prison part I guess._

 **H:** _They shot him???_

 **P:** _Wasn’t part of the plan. Mom brought a fake gun and the police freaked out._

 **H:** _Mary has a fake gun??_

 **G:** _Are you home yet?_

 **P:** _Still in the car. It’s awkward._

_I should never have told mom about Roosevelt._

**G:** _You did the right thing_.

 **H:** _No school tomorrow. I say we make breakfast hot chocolate a new tradition, what about you two?_

 **G:** _If I’m ever allowed out again..._

**P:** _Same._

“I don’t see why not,” Mary said, slowly, as Peter asked permission to meet Gwen and Harry at “their coffee shop” the next morning. It was early; they were a household of early-morning people, he’d learned, and by 8am the kitchen and living room were a bustle of activity. “We all have to go to the station at 1, though.”

“I can meet you there,” Peter said. He understood her obvious reluctance to let him go, and part of it pleased him: it was a confirmation that this really was where he belonged. “Gwen and Harry have to go too, because they’re witnesses and stuff. We’ve got to do lots of talking about our actions and our feelings,” he told her, parroting Gwen from their long text conversation the night before.

Mary laughed prettily. “I trust Gwen to keep an eye on you both. Do you know where you’re going, exactly?”

Peter told her, and then passed her his phone. “Having more than one contact is really exciting,” he said unashamedly, because it was true, and he liked to see her smile at his jokes. “My goal is to get to at least ten.”

“You’re adorable,” Mary murmured, punching in her phone number and labelling it _Mom (ICE)._ “I’ll put in Curt’s too.”

“ _ICE?”_ Peter questioned.

“In Case of Emergency,” Mary said. “If you lose your phone or you get into an accident, people will know who to call.” She passed back the phone and he saw the two new contacts: _Mom (ICE),_ and _Curt Connors._ Peter figured he’d need to talk about _that_ with Curt sooner or later. He pocketed the phone, and the spare key that Mary had dug out from under a flowerpot in the forecourt. His key, now.

In the living room, Billy was sleepily finishing a slice of toast and last-minute homework at the same time: his elementary school didn’t let out for holidays for another week. Peter ruffled his bright, fluffy hair as he passed him. “See you after school, Billy.”

“Can’t believe she’s making me go to school,” Billy grumbled, accepting the hair-ruffle reluctantly. “We break up on Friday anyway.”

“What, you wanna go to the police station? It is _super_ boring,” Peter assured him. “Sooner it’s all done the better, and then we can hang out. Promise. Do you know how to skate?”

“Like on roller-skates?” Billy asked.

“On a skateboard,” Peter corrected. “Much, _much_ cooler. I’ll teach you.”

Billy grinned, eyes lighting up at this promise. “After school?”

“If mom and Curt say it’s okay.” Peter watched Billy frown slightly, confused at the sound of his father’s first name. Finding something to call Curt was definitely on the agenda, Peter confirmed to himself.

There was a knock at the door. “Have fun at school,” Peter said, grinned at his little brother’s mock-disgusted face and bounded over to the door. “It’s Harry,” he called out, sensing Mary’s unease from across the room.

“Why are you knocking? You have a key,” Peter said as soon as he opened the door.

Harry waved cheerily. “Good morning to you too. I thought it’d be fun for you to open the door to someone in your own home. Also, I left my key in my other jacket, and only realised when I was already halfway here. Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” He turned back to face the kitchen, and waved. “Uh, bye mom,” he called out. The words felt strange on his tongue. He liked them.

“Bye, sweetheart,” Mary called back. She gripped her cup of coffee tight as she smiled at him, as if she were stopping herself running forward to grab him and hold him safe and tight. “I’ll call you when we get to the station.”

“See you soon,” Peter promised.

“Hi Mary,” Harry called back, shepherding them both through the door. “Bye, Mary!”

“So, change of plan,” Harry said as soon as the door was closed and they were walking down the street. “We’re still getting hot chocolate. That is a tradition I will not mess with.”

“It’s happened exactly once,” Peter reminded him.

“All traditions have to start somewhere. Anyway, we’re still getting hot chocolate, but we’re getting it to-go. Gwen says your father’s at the station right now being interviewed.”

“Oh.” Peter stopped, struggling with his thoughts. “And – I have to be there?”

“Well, no. You’re not supposed to be anywhere _near_ there. But if my dad got shot – well, if my dad was a lunatic who kidnapped me and _then_ got shot – I’d still want to see for myself that he was okay. So we’re gonna watch the station from a reasonable distance until it’s our turn to be interviewed, and you can get some closure.”

Peter smiled, stopped dead in the street, and pulled Harry into a hug. He didn’t know how he’d managed to find two people who understood him so well, but he knew one thing; he was never, _ever,_ letting them go.

“You’ve really got your strength back,” Harry wheezed, putting just a fraction of space between them so he could snake his arm up to pat Peter’s back in a friendly manner. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just a stake-out. What else are friends for?”

 

_ Epilogue _

“Peter, are you getting the bus home?”

Peter paused from where he had been gathering up his exercise books and pencil case into his backpack, and looked up at Anna, his lab partner, who was standing in the doorway ready to leave. The school bell had rung a few minutes ago. “Not today,” he told her. “Photography club meeting.”

“You’re in the photography cub?” She asked, and then rolled her eyes, smiling at him in a friendly manner. “What am I saying. Of course you are. I didn’t even know we _had_ one.”

“It’s an offshoot of yearbook club,” Peter said, laughing. “It’s very small. So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Anna nodded. “Later,” she waved, and left the room. Peter waited a few moments before following, and ducked into the boy’s bathroom a few doors down. From his backpack he retrieved a pair of tinted goggles and his new prize possessions; wrist guards, or “web-shooters”, as Harry liked to call them. They clipped on his wrists and fit snugly around his spinnerets, guarding and protecting the skin there. Instead of using his natural webbing he now had access to artificial webs from Oscorp, developed by scientists after the work his father did on the spiders, which meant he could swing around town with no pain; no strain on his joints, and most importantly, no blood. His body had felt better since he’d been off his father’s “medication” – he felt stronger, impossibly strong, and fast. His spinnerets were open all the time now and they’d hardened, so he wouldn’t have to split the skin on his wrists any more, but he liked the artificial webs better. He could save his natural webbing for emergencies, and hoped there never would be any.

Peter had woken up the week before to see just the faintest hint of colour in his room. As his eyes adjusted he saw the world in more depth around home and school; green grass, red brick, and his new favourite hue - Gwen’s eyes - which were a dizzying, dazzling shade of blue.

Peter hopped on to the windowsill after he’d geared up. He tried really hard not to make a habit of this, but after overhearing a conversation between his mom and Captain Stacy on the phone, he just couldn’t help himself. His father had been moved back into the city: at the Ravenscroft Institute.

Midtown Science was a tall building, and the bathroom window he’d chosen especially for the purpose faced an even taller block of flats and several lampposts, statues, and bridges were easily available to him. With his new web shooters, New York was his playground. Peter guiltily tried to suppress the surge of glee he felt as the wind whipped his face. He didn’t even mind the cold January evening air. He _loved_ this. Peter steadied himself, mapped out the route in his head, and jumped.

Ravenscroft was a building hidden away, near to the Oscorp tower but hard to find if you didn’t know what you were looking for. Mostly, it was underground, but Peter knew the window he was looking for; small, and high up, and just big enough for him to perch on. Inside was a room not unlike a laboratory, if it weren’t for the complete lack of lab equipment, and a man in plain but decent prison clothing, painstakingly transcribing hand-written files onto an old laptop. Peter knew from Captain Stacy that his father had been ordered to write up every little experiment he’d performed on his son. Peter hadn’t told them about the flash drive with the real information on; only he and his new family knew about that. He wondered what his father was transcribing; journal entries, maybe, or reports. Nothing that would tell them the whole story.

Richard was clearly engrossed in them, as Peter had already opened the window and made himself comfortable on the ledge before his father even noticed him. He coughed, once, almost politely. Richard started, looked around wildly, and registered Peter’s presence just as he slipped the goggles off and showed his face.

“Peter,” Richard breathed out. Reverent. “What are you doing here?”

“They don’t allow visits at Ravenscroft,” Peter said in way of explanation.

“The cameras – “

“Disabled for ten minutes. Harry swung it. No pun intended.”

“ _Why?”_

Harry had asked Peter that too, and Peter had no answer for him. He still didn’t.

“The last time I tried to get closure, someone shot you,” Peter said after a while. “And that wasn’t right. It wasn’t the plan. No-one was supposed to get hurt.”

“I’m okay,” Richard assured him. “Aches a bit when it’s cold, which is all the time, but apart from that…”

There was a long pause as both of them tried to figure out what to say. Peter swung his legs in an anxious, child-like manner. Richard fidgeted with the ancient computer mouse.

“It’s late. Where does your mother think you are?”

Peter raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Are you seriously trying to _dad_ me right now?”

“Peter – “

“Photography club. School is great, by the way. Took me a while to get used to so many people, but I like it.”

“I bet you’re streets ahead of them in class,” Richard said, finally allowing himself a small smile.

Peter shrugged, as if to say, _can’t complain._ It was true that Richard’s advanced teaching put Peter well ahead of most of his classmates, except Gwen, but he didn’t show it off. It had been difficult enough being the subject of everyone’s attention after the news story broke: all he wanted were friends, and a normal life. He could pass on academic fame.

“Why are you here?” Richard asked again.

“Do you want me to go?”

“Don’t answer a question with a question.”

“But I have so many,” Peter sighed. “Number one: why were you drugging me? So I couldn’t leave you?”

Richard shrugged, and made a _so-so_ gesture with his hand. “I wasn’t going to do it forever. It was an experiment.”

“Right. Everything is with you. My whole _life_ is your big experiment.”

“Are those all your questions?” Richard asked. “You said you had ten minutes.”

“Crap, yeah.” Peter checked his watch, and groaned. “You distracted me. I don’t know, Dad, I didn’t plan this out as well as I should have. I thought I’d get here and just _know_ exactly what to say.”

“Take a deep breath,” Richard said. It was something he’d always said to Peter when he got scared, or anxious. “You shouldn’t have come here, it’s dangerous. But I’m glad you did.”

“I’m not sure I am,” Peter replied. There had been days – weeks – of planning, and worrying, but now that he was here, he simply felt… out of place. Not unwanted, but not a part of his father’s life any more. And he thought perhaps that was how it should stay.

“Was it worth it?” Peter asked. “Every time we had to move, every time I got sick, every argument, every _gunshot wound…_ was it all worth it to you?”

Incredibly, his father nodded. “You’re a gift, Peter. You’re my greatest creation. Just look at you. Capable of things no mere human could ever dream of. Of _course_ it was.”

Peter felt something inside of him snap, like a balloon string, and he let it go. He let his father go. “I’m my own creation,” he said. “And I am done trying to defend you.” He looked at his watch. 30 seconds remaining. Peter slipped the goggles back over his head and onto his eyes. “If you ever get out of here,” he said over his shoulder as he turned to leave, “Don’t look me up. I’m not your son.”

“Peter – “

The window shut. Peter didn’t allow himself to look backwards. As he plunged into the night sky he felt freer than he had ever felt before. He landed, as if weightless, on the low-hanging ledge of an apartment building. Home was twenty minutes away if he swung fast. Peter dug in his backpack for his headphones, but as he was picking a track, a different sound made its way to his ears, and a familiar prickling feeling dripped over his head.

 _“Stop it!”_ A woman’s voice cried out from the street below.

Peter cocked his head to the side. The feeling grew stronger.

 _“I said, I don’t want you to touch me!_ ”

Peter put his headphones into his pocket and looked down at his wrists: at the shooters he’d made with the help of his friends. At all the potential bundled up in miles and miles of spider webs.

He thought about being touched, and bodies, and finally having control of his own.

“So let’s go,” he murmured and with a flick of his wrists descended, spider-like, into his city.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's a wrap on "neglected son of genius". I've genuinely had such a blast writing this, and it's mostly because of the regular commenters and kudos-leavers who kept me going and kept me excited about it. I really hope the last chapter was everything everyone wanted, but if not...
> 
> COMING SOON: the one-shot sequel to "neglected son of genius", set one year later -  
> "i take you by the hand".
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this last chapter in the comments! Followed the story from the beginning? Just come across it now and binged it in one night? I'd love to hear your thoughts. Till next time!


	10. Sequel (out now!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sequel to this fic, 'i take you by the hand', is now finished! You can find it at http://archiveofourown.org/works/9289601
> 
> Below is a preview, copy and paste the link or go to the series to read the whole thing, and thank you for your continuing support!

Peter yawned and burrowed deeper into his father’s arms on the sofa. Comfortable and drowsy, he was half-listening to his dad read _The Tale of Peter Rabbit,_ and half-asleep. Curt’s soft, English voice filled the room, along with the rustling sound of well-thumbed pages and the _click-clack_ of Mary’s laptop keyboard on the coffee table by the window.

“He looks tuckered out,” Mary commented with a smile as she looked over at her partner and son.

Curt looked up from the pages to see that Peter had, in fact, fallen asleep. With the stump of his right arm trapped under his son’s head, he laid the book down on his stomach with the other and stroked Peter’s hair. “Well, it’s not every day you turn five, is it?”

“I’m surprised he lasted this long,” Richard said, coming into the living room with a tray of mugs and setting it down on the side table by Curt. “Okay, one cup of disgusting leaf water for you, and coffee for the Americans.”

Curt caught him gently by the collar as he bent down and they shared a kiss, jostling Peter in the process. Sleepy-eyed, he looked up at both his fathers and focused on Richard.

“Dad?”

“Uh-oh,” Richard said, scooping Peter up in his arms before he straightened up again. “We woke the baby.”

“M’not a baby,” Peter mumbled, hiding his face in Richard’s neck. “Can we play hide and seek again tomorrow?”

“I don’t see why not,” Richard said, smiling. “Now it’s time to go to bed, kiddo. Say goodnight to daddy.”

“G’night daddy,” Peter said, as he was lowered down to press a clumsy kiss to Curt’s cheek.

Curt ruffled his hair. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”

“And say goodnight to mommy,” Mary yawned as she finally stopped typing and made her way over to where her family was congregating. “Come here, baby.”

Peter happily moved over into his mother’s arms. “Night, mommy.”

“Good night, darling boy. Happy birthday.”

As Peter made himself comfortable, another Peter stepped closer to the group; sixteen years old, wide-eyed and ghostly. “ _That’s not right,_ ” he murmured. “ _I left mom when I was two._ ”

“I’ll take him up, Mary,” Richard said. “You finish what you’re working on.”

“ _No,_ ” the older Peter said, a little loudly than before, but still softly, as if not to disturb them. He watched in discomfort as his younger self was moved back into Richard’s arms, perfectly happy to be passed around like a parcel as long as he was getting cuddled by one of them. Mary, smiling, went back to her laptop. Curt, who Peter couldn’t ever remember calling ‘daddy’, pressed one last kiss to Peter’s forehead and then sat back on the sofa with his mug of mint tea.

“Come on, Petey.” His father carried him upstairs, with his older self following behind. He made no noise as he padded up the stairs after them. “Did you have a good birthday?” Richard asked.

“ _No,_ ” the sixteen-year-old thought. “ _I was sick. We were alone. We couldn’t go to the hospital._ ” In an instant, the room – a childlike version of the room Peter had finally gotten used to sleeping in – morphed into a cold, white room, bare apart from a few pieces of furniture and a bed. The walls were marked with greasy blue tack residue and the wallpaper peeled from the damp.

“Just try and sleep, Peter.” Richard was the same age as he had been before but looked older: greyer. The sixteen-year-old Peter looked up to see himself curled up in the bed, too sick to make a web. His father was stroking his damp forehead. “I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Dad,” the five-year-old croaked out. Pale. Sickly.

_“This isn’t right either,”_ Peter thought. _“But not in the same way.”_

“Peter? Just try and sleep. Peter. Peter…”

“ _Peter...”_

Peter awoke like a shot, and before he could take a moment to properly register his surroundings, he panicked to reach out and touch eiderdown and cotton instead of webs.

“Peter,” said his mother, worry evident in her voice.

“I’m okay, I’m...” He drew the covers up closer to him with a slight grimace and looked up at his mom. It was still dark outside, but not cold like it had been in the dream. “Is – is everything all right? What’s wrong?”

Mary sat down on the bed beside him, and wordlessly passed him her phone.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “After seeing this. And then when I went to take a walk, I heard you talking in your sleep.”

Peter smiled to see that his mother had thoughtfully dimmed down the brightness on her phone to the lowest level for him, but the smile left his face as he scanned the news article she’d brought up.

“That’s pretty crazy,” he mumbled, trying very hard not to focus on the grainy picture of a teenager scaling a building. “The vigilante thing in New York is really getting out of hand, huh?”

“So,” she said, narrowing her eyes slightly, “You don’t know anything about this?”

Peter shrugged in his pyjamas, and was careful to make eye contact. “Mom, I couldn’t scale a building if I wanted to. No stick. No webs. It all faded, remember? Cause you took such good care of me,” he joked, though he couldn’t quite smile through the anxiety. “I’m not just an experiment anymore. I’m a real boy!” he added, affecting a Pinocchio-style voice.

“Oh, Peter,” she laughed, drawing him into a hug that he gratefully accepted. “You’ve never been _just_ an experiment. I’m sorry, I panicked. It’s probably just an awful photo of Daredevil, isn’t it?”

“It is kinda grainy.” Peter pulled back, and ran a hand through his hair. “Um, I love you, but can I go back to sleep? School in the morning…”

“Of course, honey.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead and put her phone back in her pocket. “Let me know if you need anything, all right? You looked like you were having a bad dream, earlier.”

“Sure. Night, mom.” Peter waited until she’d left the room before leaning back and letting out a deep groan. It was getting lighter outside, and if he was lucky, he’d get at least four to five hours of sleep in total tonight.

Peter kicked his goggles further under his bed and webbed his curtains shut. “Sorry, mom,” he murmured before he fell asleep.

**Read the rest at:** http://archiveofourown.org/works/9289601.


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